A Quiet Year
by Purupuss
Summary: It was supposed to be a quiet year... Wasn't it?
1. A Quiet Beginning

_This story was originally only going to be five chapters long – one for each of the boys. Then it expanded to include Jeff.... Then Grandma... Then...Well, it is a Purupuss story. And each chapter is Purupuss length, so instead of doing my usual thing of uploading daily, on Quiller's advice I'm going to upload every two days. That'll give you time to read each chapter before the next instalment comes along... and still have a life._

A Quiet Year_ is the sequel to _Brothers in Arms_, and you will need to remember what happened in that story to make sense of this one. _Brothers in Arms_ is, of course, the sequel to _A Quiet Beginning_._

_I would like to thank _Quiller_, _D.C._, _BoomerCat_ and _Samantha Winchester_ for their advice and encouragement. When you want to know something, ask the experts._

_I do not own Thunderbirds, any member of the Tracy family, the Kyranos, Brains, Lady Penelope or Parker. All other characters belong to me... Kinda._

_Please do not copy or post this story anywhere else, including in C2s, without my permission. Thank you._

_And talking of C2s, I've created one called the "A Quiet Series", linking together all stories preceding A Quiet Year, including Quiller's The Deciding Factor, so that it's easy to find them all.  
_

_F-A-B_

:-) _Purupuss_

_PS: And I forgot to say... For those of you who like to keep an eye out for my regular, sometimes hidden, cameo character, they do appear in this story, but in an obscure way... Very obscure... Very, VERY obscure... As obscure as a polar bear on an ice floe in the middle of an Arctic blizzard. _

_And no, that's not a clue._

;-)_ P  
_

_---I-R---_

_---F-A-B---_

**A Quiet Year**

**1: A Quiet Beginning**

"I've got him this job," Jeff Tracy declared, "but that's the last help he can expect from me. He wants to be treated like any other employee at ACE, and I agree that that's the right thing to do. We've both decided that it would be better if no one knows of our relationship."

Hamish Mickelson looked at his friend and boss, earnestly. "Knowing Virgil as I do, I don't think he'll need your help." He turned to look at the young man seated beside Jeff and his eyes twinkled.

"However if we were talking about your two younger brothers…"

The recent graduate of the Denver School of Advanced Technology was sitting on the edge of his seat. "I'll do my best, Uncle Hamish."

Hamish laughed. "If you're going to pretend that you're not the son of the owner of 'Aeronautical Component Engineering', Virgil, then you'd better stop calling me 'Uncle Hamish'. I can't help it that I've known your father since he was a naive farm boy just starting out in the Air Force."

Virgil gave the other man a guilty smile. "It might take some getting used to."

"Don't worry about it; I don't come down to the shop floor very often. This man here," Hamish pointed to Jeff, "makes sure that I'm kept busy pushing paper about."

"That's why this factory is one of the highest grossing in my engineering portfolio," Jeff growled. "Because you're so darn good at your job and because I trust you implicitly."

"Is that why you're letting ACE manufacture some of the components for these amazing machines you've got planned, Jeff?"

"Yes. And also why I agreed that Virgil should work here until we start operations," Jeff stated. "He'll be able to keep an eye on them as they pass through the plant. I don't need to tell you how imperative it is that each component is made exactly to specifications."

"You don't," Hamish agreed. "And I don't need to tell you that ACE has rigid quality control systems in place." He sat back. "This is an amazing venture you've got planned, and you've got five amazing young men lined up for your operatives." He turned back to Virgil. "Compared to what's in store for you next year, you're going to find it boring working here."

"I want to get some practical experience, Uncle Ha..., Sir… ah… Mr Mickelson…" the two elder men chuckled. "The instructors kept on drumming into us that theory's all very well, but it's nothing compared with actual practical experience."

"Your instructors were right," Jeff agreed.

"How are the rest of the boys?" Hamish asked.

"Scott's arm is better…"

"The one he broke in Bereznick?" Hamish interrupted.

"Yes…" Jeff noted that Virgil was rubbing the arm that had ached until his brother had been found, a subconscious reminder of those frantic hours when Scott's condition was unknown. "He's eager to leave the Air Force and start work on International Rescue's planes…"

"I think he should wait," Virgil stated. "Or else everyone's going to think that he's lost his nerve after the crash."

"I spoke with him about that," Jeff said. "He says he doesn't care if they do. In fact he said that it might be to our advantage; no one would think that someone too scared to be in the Air Force would be brave enough to pilot the world's fastest plane. He also made the point that it'll seem a bit odd if the five of you suddenly drop out of society at the same time. I agree with him. This way it'll seem as if he talks you all into the 'playboy' lifestyle."

Virgil was silent while Hamish barked out a laugh. "Playboys! Your sons? Jeff, really!"

"That's the image we're trying to create," Jeff confirmed.

"And John?" Hamish asked. "How's his space career going?"

"Would 'out of this world' be too much of a pun?" Jeff asked. "He's written a book about some of his discoveries, which is at the printers as we speak."

"I hope I'm going to get an autographed first edition copy for Christmas."

"I'll suggest it to him," Jeff chuckled. "He's heading up to the space station for a month, but he's managed to squeeze in the book launch before he goes. He's disappointed that Gordon's not going to be able to attend."

"When's he finishing his tenure in the bathyscaphe?"

"He's still got two months to go. Knowing Gordon he's probably getting a little stir crazy by now. A year underwater's a long time; even for him."

"He keeps on moaning about missing Grandma's cooking," Virgil said. "She's promising to have all his favourites ready for him when he surfaces."

"I'm sure he can't wait," Hamish smiled. "Your Grandma's cooking is unsurpassed, except for maybe my Edna's… And Alan? Is he still firing rockets into buildings?"

Jeff managed a tight laugh that, to someone who knew him as the other men present did, was without humour. "I see you're not following the motor racing section of your paper."

"No. I read the world news headlines, the local news headlines, and the business news and that's it. Doing well is he?"

"There's talk that he might win the world championship in his rookie year," Jeff said. Then he frowned. "He worries me though. Sometimes he still behaves like he's an impulsive teenager. If I have any doubts about my boys' abilities to make International Rescue work, and in the main I don't; it's Alan's hot-headedness that causes me the most concerns."

Virgil nodded. He had the same fears.

"You don't have to start operations next year," Hamish advised. "It's not as though the world knows International Rescue is coming. Wait until you feel he's mature enough for the responsibility."

"I could," Jeff admitted. "But I'm scared that by then Alan will have killed himself in a car crash."

Virgil glanced at his father. This was the first time that he was aware of that Jeff had openly expressed any fears about the Tracy boys' careers: either present or future.

"Well, we'd better get back to business," Hamish Mickelson said. "It's a little odd for me to be hiring floor staff; that type of thing is usually handed by the Production Manager, Max Watts. He's a good man…"

Jeff agreed.

"…And you'd do well to learn all you can from him, Virgil," Hamish continued. "But we'd better make sure we do everything properly," he handed Virgil a clipboard with some papers constrained under the clip, "staring with filling out an application form." Virgil accepted the 'board and began reading through. "What are you going to do about your name? 'Virgil's' uncommon enough as it is and Virgil Tracy's going to be a giveaway. Everyone's going to know who you are."

Virgil looked up from where he was writing and smiled at the man behind the desk. "We've already talked about that. I'll use the last name of Tancy. It's close enough to Tracy that I won't get confused…"

"And with that scrawl of a signature of yours," Jeff looked at his son fondly, "you'd never know whether you've written Tracy or Tancy."

"Albert Tancy was the name of my first piano teacher. He was a great guy…" Virgil explained as he filled in the required paperwork.

"In that case," Hamish handed over a second piece of paper, "if you wouldn't mind, Virgil, I'll get you to fill in two forms. One with your real name, and one as Virgil Tancy. My boss likes me to be scrupulously honest with my paperwork." He winked at Jeff who laughed. "I'll keep the genuine copy in my filing cabinet and give your alias to the office staff to process."

"Thank you." Virgil handed the clipboard back. "I've left the next of kin blank on the fake one. Is that okay? I don't know what to put."

"That's fine," Hamish grunted. He wrote '_see_ _H. Mickelson_' across the next of kin section. Then he quickly read through the rest of the document noting that, as Jeff had said, the signature at the end could indeed have read _V. Tracy _or _V. Tancy_. "This looks all in order."

"Good." Jeff stood. "We won't hold you up any longer, Hamish. Thanks for coming in on a Sunday."

"Not a problem, Jeff," Hamish smiled. "How about a game of golf to seal the deal?" Both men laughed and Virgil joined in. They all knew that Jeff Tracy was no more at home on a golf course than he would have been in Gordon's bathyscaphe.

They all moved towards the door. "Well," Hamish was saying. "If you're not keen to head to the links, how about my place for dinner? Edna's got something special planned."

"Love to," Jeff smiled. "Is that okay with you, Virgil?"

"Yes, Sir," Virgil agreed with enthusiasm. 'Aunty Edna's' cooking almost rivalled his grandmother's for culinary delights.

"We won't make you stay up too late," Hamish offered with a chuckle. "You've got work tomorrow."

Virgil's grin broadened. "I can't wait."

"Don't get too excited," Jeff clapped his son on the back. "And make the most of it. It's going to be the last quiet year you'll have for a long time…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil Tracy felt the resistance offered by his crisp new navy overalls as he bent forward to pull on his safety boots. Then he stood and his reflection stared back from the mirror on the back of the locker door, along with a mirror-image of the ACE logo embroidered on the chest of the overalls. He pulled his class-5 earmuffs (with music player connection and external microphone) and protective glasses out of the locker and slammed the door shut.

Someone entered the room. The young man's name, embroidered beneath his ACE logo, revealed him to be 'Louis'. He was about Virgil's age and height, though stockier, with red hair, even redder than Gordon's. "Hello? Someone new?"

"Yes," Virgil admitted and extended his hand in greeting. "I'm Virgil Tancy."

"Louis Fleming." Judging by his faded overalls, scuffed boots and frayed logo, Louis had been working for ACE since the last allocation of protective gear and Virgil wondered how long it would take before he blended in as one of the team.

"Have we got ourselves a newbie?" another man said. His embroidered name revealed him to be called 'Bruce' and he had a white cross with red edging embroidered on each sleeve. He was perhaps a couple of years older than Virgil, tall, wiry and dark in complexion and hair colour.

"We have, Bruce," Louis confirmed his colleague's identity. "We're going to have to get your name sewn on pal. What was it? Virgil…? Um…?" He had clearly managed to forget what he'd been told only seconds earlier.

"Tancy," Virgil said. "I'm starting today," he added unnecessarily as he extended his hand to 'Bruce'.

"Bruce Sanders. I hadn't heard they were advertising for anyone new."

Virgil and Hamish Mickelson had already decided that there were some situations where it was better to stick close to the truth. "My family knows Mr Mickelson's family. My father's looking to start up a new venture in a year so I'm filling in time before I join the family business… Getting some practical experience."

Louis Fleming gave a low whistle. "Boy! Mega's gonna be stewing when he learns ol' Micky's taken to employing his staff behind his back."

"Mega?" Virgil asked.

"'Mega Watts': Max Watts, the Production Manager," Bruce explained. "So you've had no engineering experience?"

"Not a lot of practical experience," Virgil admitted. "I've only just graduated. That's why I'm here. To learn from some of the best."

Louis grinned and buffed his nails on his overalls. "Naturally."

"Where'd you train?" Bruce asked.

"Denver School of Advanced Technology."

Louis gave another whistle. "Top engineering faculty in the country. How'd you do?"

Virgil gave a casual shrug. "I passed."

"Come with us, Virgil," Bruce said. "We'll introduce you to Mega…"

"Thank you, Mr Sanders," an older voice interrupted.

Bruce gave an almost audible gulp. "Ah… Virgil Tancy… This is Mr Watts, the Production Manager."

The slightly built, greying man ignored Virgil's outstretched hand, instead preferring to refer to the clipboard he was holding like the Holy Grail. "_Virgil Tancy_…" he read. "_Graduated_ _top of your year…_" Virgil tried not to look embarrassed as Bruce and Louis exchanged glances. "Little practical experience…"

"Ah, no…" Virgil admitted. "That's why I…"

He was silenced by a glare over a pair of grimy spectacles. "Don't think that just because you _think_ you know all there is to know, that you can swan in here and tell everyone else what to do. You'll start where everyone who works here starts. At the bottom."

Virgil nodded. It was what he was expecting, but hadn't been prepared for it to be put so bluntly.

"Your hours will be from 7.30am to 4.00pm, Monday to Friday. Lunch is 12 midday to 12.30pm. There are two ten-minute breaks at 9.50am and 2.50pm. Each of these times is delineated by the bell. Tardiness and slacking will not be tolerated… _Understand_?"

"Yes, Sir."

Watts frowned. "You will clock in and clock out at each end of every shift, and when starting and completing each break. Furthermore you will clock in when starting every new task, even if it's only cleaning up. You _will not_ clock in on behalf of any other employee, nor will you allow any other employee to clock in on your behalf. To do so means _instant_ dismissal. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

Watts frowned again. "Follow me." He led Virgil out of the locker and handed him a long, stiff piece of cardboard. "Here is your clock card for the day. Write your name on top… In future your clock card will have your name pre-printed on. Should you require more than one then blanks are stored here…" Watts was staring at where Virgil had written his first name and stumbled over his unfamiliar surname. "Make sure your writing is _legible_… Each time you clock in a job, scan the works order card's barcode and the appropriate details will be printed on your clock card and be entered into the timekeeping computer. For costing purposes it is vital that we keep track of the length of time spent on each job… Well…" he glowered at Virgil. "Clock in!"

Virgil did as he was told and felt a sense of satisfaction when he felt the punch go through the card. He was finally out in the paid workforce! Next step his first pay packet!

A siren sounded. "Ah," Watts grunted, sounding pleased. "Seven thirty. I'll call a quick meeting and introduce you to the team."

_The Team_. Virgil liked the sound of that.

He was less sure when he found himself under the intense scrutiny of a disparate group of people whose sole link with each other seemed to be their faded navy overalls with the ACE logo. They were staring at him with what appeared to be some degree of hostility.

"Mr Tancy…" Watts was saying, "having graduated top of his class from the Denver School of Technology…" people looked at each other at this piece of news, "has deigned to join us here at Aeronautical Component Engineering for one year before moving on to bigger and better things." There was a murmur from the assembled gathering and Virgil, uncomfortable at being the focus of so many stares, tried to appear relaxed, realised that he was fidgeting, and shoved both his hands into his pockets. He decided that this looked too casual, pulled one hand out and held it behind his back as he attempted to appear unconcerned by the unwanted attention.

It didn't work. He saw Bruce whisper something to Louis and both men glanced at the newcomer before stifling their laughter. Virgil felt his face redden with a heat that was nothing to do with the furnace at the other end of the factory.

"I am sure," Watts continued, "that we will all do all we can to ensure that Mr Tancy's brief stay with us is a memorable one…" He glared at his workforce. "Well, don't just stand there! You know what you have to do… Move!"

Clearly used to such abrupt orders, the day shift of ACE dispersed as Watts turned back to his newest recruit. "Now, Mr Tancy, this is a safe workplace with a good safety record. Mr Tracy insists on that and he won't welcome some newcomer spoiling our near perfect record. Your safety boots will protect your feet against solvents and temperatures up to 300 degrees Celsius and you _will_ wear them at all times when on the factory floor. There are signs throughout the factory showing where you _must_ wear earmuffs and safety goggles." He wagged a gnarled finger at Virgil. "I will _not_ tolerate any disregard for personal safety."

"Yes, Sir," Virgil agreed.

Watts appeared to grit his teeth. "All hazardous areas are also clearly signposted. If you are found loitering in an area where you are _not_ currently supposed to be working you _will_ be reprimanded."

"Yes, Sir."

Watts glared at Virgil again. "Your overalls will be laundered once a week. On your last working day of the week you _will_ put your overalls into one of those hampers over there." He pointed at several large hampers that lined one of the locker room walls. "That is _in_ one of the hampers. I will not tolerate _almost_ in a hamper or _on_ the floor near a hamper. Your overalls must go _in_ the hamper."

"Yes, Sir."

There was that glare again. Virgil got the feeling that he was doing something wrong, but didn't know what. Behind Watts, Bruce and Louis were trying to tell him something, but he couldn't read their hand signals without making it obvious that his attention wasn't completely on his supervisor.

"You will be supplied with two pair of named overalls. These overalls will be cleaned weekly by the company's laundry. Any _deliberate_ damage to your overalls by you and you will pay for the repairs and/or replacement of your overalls from your wage packet."

"Yes, Sir."

Watts ground out an exasperated sigh. "You _will_ ensure that your boots are kept clean and cared for. This is a dangerous workplace with dangerous chemicals and hot metal and you do _not_ want substandard footwear…"

"Yes, Sir… ah… No, Sir…" Virgil said. His attention wavered as the two mime artists cringed.

"Would you stop doing that!?" Watts thundered.

Virgil stared at his supervisor and felt his face grow hot again. "S-Sir…?"

"Stop calling me 'Sir'! It's 'Mr Watts' to you and don't you forget it!"

"Yes, S… ah… Yes, Mr Watts." Virgil felt his temperature go up a notch or two. Confused he glanced at Bruce and Louis.

Watts saw the glance. He spun on his heel. "What are you two doing here?"

"Ah… We thought that…" Bruce began and ground to a halt.

"That…" Louis began, trying to save the situation. "That… That you'd want us to show Virgil around." He gave his supervisor a weak smile.

"I will show Tancy around!" Watts scowled. "You have work to do."

"Yes, Mr Watts," both employees chorused. They deserted a bemused Virgil and an angry supervisor.

"Watch those two," Watts informed his newest employee. "They're good at their jobs, but they have a tendency to act the fool." Virgil nodded his understanding, not wanting to risk saying the wrong thing again, and Watts gestured roughly. "I'll show you about."

"Thank you… Mr Watts." As he watched a frown harden Virgil wondered what the man had against being called 'Sir' and whether he'd be able to control an ingrained habit.

They stepped away from the grimy white locker room and into what could have been at first glance a museum to the mechanical dinosaur. Closer inspection revealed that each machine was actually state of the art and it was only their uniform dull green paint and grease lubrication that gave the impression of age. Each piece of machinery was mounted on smooth running tracks designed to move them about the floor so products of all sizes could be accommodated. Gantries, walkways, conveyor belts, and cranes; rooms housing computers and computer technology; offices and open spaces; the factory was structured in such as way as to maximise space and efficiencies without being cluttered. From the ceiling to the floor, the factory was filled with the various devices used in the manufacture of aeronautical components. Aeronautical Component Engineering was capable of manufacturing almost anything from the largest to the smallest item; from mass production to one-offs.

"All through the plant," Watts pointed to a locker on the wall, "you will find gloves and masks to be used when operating the adjacent machinery. When you have finished using the gloves dispose of them in the appropriate container and they will either be cleaned and re-used or disposed of appropriately. Here…" Watts indicated what looked like a shower head over a hand basin next to a green box with a white cross, "and there by the lathes, there by the drills," he pointed rapid fire around the factory, "in the paint bay, chemical bay, crucible area and elsewhere… I'll show you as we continue… are trauma kits and eye-wash stations. You are _not_ to touch the trauma kits unless instructed by a trained first aider; identified by the white and red crosses on their sleeves."

Virgil remembered the signage on Bruce's overalls and nodded. "I've got first aid certificates and I'm going to be doing an advanced course at the weekends if you need someone else," he offered.

"And increase your pay packet accordingly," Watts sneered.

Virgil blinked. "What?"

Watts ignored him. "All injuries, no matter how small, must be attended by a trained _authorised_ first aider. I don't care if you've got a paper cut in your pinky! See a first aider and they will supply you with the appropriate treatment and note it in the 'record of injury' book. No exceptions."

Virgil nodded. Obviously someone who was going to be part of a world-wide rescue organisation didn't qualify as an authorised first aider. Not that Watts could be expected to know that.

"A doctor is on site from 9.00am to 4.00pm daily," Watts was informing him.

Virgil nodded again. He already knew this.

"Each job is assigned a works order number." Watts tapped something into a computer monitor and a screen full of details appeared. "As an example, here we have a one-off item being manufactured for Rimmer Corporation…" his gnarled finger pointed at the name of screen.

Virgil stared at the glowing letters, not really listening to what was being said. Rimmer Corporation! That was the name of the shadow company that was producing some of the components for the rocket plane in International Rescue's fleet. He felt a slightly guilty pride at being able to see part of Scott's craft before even his big brother had the opportunity to clap eyes on it.

Watts, unaware of Virgil's quiet excitement, moved on. "Here," he stopped at where a line, painted in yellow and black diagonal stripes, bisected the floor, "is as far as you go in this factory, unless instructed otherwise by myself or any of the charge hands. Understood?"

"Yes, Mr Watts."

"This area contains the crucible furnace."

Virgil had guessed that. Approximately 50 metres ahead of him and his 'tour guide' was a giant spherical object suspended from a gantry crane; black on the outside but judging by the heat waves above it and the red glow on the ceiling, filled with molten metal. Even from where he was standing, Virgil fancied that he could feel the heat emanating from the furnace.

"Except for maintenance, the furnace is operational 24/7," Watts intoned. "Here…" he pointed at an innocuous black box pinned to the wall just beyond the painted barrier, "is the switch to shut it down. That must _never_…" Virgil was growing tired of the way this guy always seemed to talk in italics, "_never_ be touched except under exceptional circumstances. But even if it is shut down," Watts continued with some kind of grim satisfaction, "it will still take a minimum of 72 hours before it is cool enough to touch."

Virgil could believe that.

Linishers… Presses… Swagers… Inwards Goods… Outwards Goods… Watts continued the tour, pointing out the various parts of the factory that Virgil would get to know so well over the next year.

Circuit complete they finished up beside the locker room again. "Through there," Watts pointed to an innocuous door as if it were an armed prisoner surrendering, "is the canteen. You may bring your own meals or purchase them on site. We have a variety of foods, but if you have any special needs see the canteen staff the day before you make your purchase. Now, Mr Tancy," Watts turned to face Virgil with a smile that was somewhat predatory. "Let's find something for you to do that _should_ be within your capabilities." He led Virgil over to a linisher. "I presume you know how this operates?"

Virgil looked at the machine. As expected, the sandpaper-like linishing belt ran around the outside of five contact wheels. Turn it on, hold your piece of metal against the belt, and it would grind down to the shape your required. Simple. Eager to please, Virgil smiled at the Production Manager. "Not a problem."

"Don't get too cocky," Watts growled. "Let's see how you go."

Convinced that this was a test, Virgil went through the expected set-up processes, finishing with the donning on his earmuffs, glasses, dust mask, and a pair of gloves. He was about to reach for the 'on' switch when he stopped.

"What's wrong," Watts snarled. "Forgotten something?"

"No," Virgil responded. "But I was wondering if you were going to stand that close while you watch me. And if you are, are you going to put on your own protective equipment?"

Watts gave him a look that clearly read, 'don't push your luck', and donned the appropriate gear.

It took time, but eventually the Production Manager seemed confident enough with Virgil's performance that he let himself be called away to assist another employee. Virgil gave a sigh of relief into his mask and relaxed.

He was so intent in his job that he was unaware of anything around him until someone tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped the linisher and straightened, removing his mask and earmuffs.

Virgil was tall, but this man towered over him. From the tattoo on his forehead, he appeared to be known as 'Butch', and Virgil figured that the man's name or nickname was not one derived from sarcasm. His overalls were open to the waist and tied around his midriff, revealing a torso that resembled an Art Gallery. Metaphorically as Butch was as big as a civic building and literally as every exposed piece of skin was covered by more tattoos, including one just below Virgil's eye level, over Butch's heart, that read 'Lisa', and a picture of a skull engraved on his right cheek.

Butch leant nearer and Virgil got a closer look at his long since broken nose. "Tryin' t' make the rest of us look bad are you?"

"Pardon?" Virgil frowned at the slightly menacing figure, feeling crowded by this solid wall of muscle. "What do you mean?" he asked, inching backwards to give himself more space.

"I mean workin' through ya morning tea break. Might be how ya do thin's at that fancy school, but ya don' get points for showin' off here."

"Working through…" Virgil looked at his watch, which read 10.08am. "I didn't hear the bell. Doesn't it go for tea breaks?"

Butch gave him a contemptuous look before shaking his finger in Virgil's face. "An' keep your hands off my wife!" He stalked off.

Bewildered, Virgil stared after him until someone just as unwelcome stepped into his field of vision. "Finished have you?"

"Ah… uh… Two to go, Mr Watts."

"You mean you haven't finished yet?" There was a satisfied gleam in Max Watts eye. "I guess all that theory doesn't make you work any faster. Any one of these people here…" he waved his arm about, encompassing the entire factory, "would have had that little job done before the tea break." He leant slightly closer and his face tightened into a grim line. "Without having to work through."

Virgil decided not to remind the manager that much of his morning had been taken up with the guided tour. "I didn't mean to work through. I didn't hear…"

Watts wasn't interested. "Finish those two and then come and see me!"

The morning dragged on. Virgil was supplied with one monotonous job after another and his infrequent contacts with the other staff members made him feel like an unwelcome intruder.

He heard the bell for the next break, switched off his machine and dusted it to remove some swarf - the metal dust and shavings that had been ground away by the linisher – and then retired to the locker room to wash his hands and retrieve his lunch.

He entered the canteen and felt a multitude of eyes stare at him as everyone stopped eating. Aware that the company appeared to close ranks and there weren't any obvious places left to sit, Virgil looked at his watch, pretended to remember an appointment, and hurried out to his car. He drove around the corner to a nearby park and sat in the vehicle, eating his solitary lunch and feeling disgusted with his behaviour. All his life he'd been popular, surrounded by groups of friends or close-knit brothers, but now Virgil was aware of being very much alone. It was not a sensation to be enjoyed.

Determined to create a good impression on both his bosses and fellow employees, he made sure he was back at his work station a good five minutes before the end-of-break bell sounded.

He'd been hard at work for another hour, bored out of his brain as he linished yet another component in the seemly never-ending production line, when someone yelled at him through his earmuffs. He looked at Bruce Sanders. "Hi?"

"Mega's got another job for you," Bruce shouted.

"He has?" Virgil felt relief. "Where is he?"

Bruce beckoned. "You're not scared of heights, are you?"

Virgil chuckled. "No."

"Good. Follow me."

Glad of the break, Virgil followed the other man up onto the highest gantry in the building. He was surprised to find, not the expected Max Watts, but Louis Fleming and a couple of other men identified by their overalls as Burt and Paul. He gave them a smile. "What's the job?"

"We need your help to inspect some of the conveyor systems," Louis explained. "Check that they are rolling freely."

This sounded like something more interesting than linishing endless components. Virgil nodded. "I can do that. What do you want me to do? Where do I start?"

"Take a step back," Bruce explained. "There, that's good. You're in position."

Virgil frowned. Something wasn't ringing true. "Where's Mr Watts?"

"Down there," Burt pointed vaguely down towards the factory floor.

"Yeah," Paul grinned. "And that's where you're headed."

Virgil hadn't expected to find himself tipping backwards. His brain had only just registered that he had been pushed on the chest when he found himself sliding, headfirst, along a set of rollers towards the ground. He heard laughter as he fell away from the gantry and he could almost imagine that he could feel the heat from the crucible furnace as he sped past. Designed for the transportation of heavy loads, Virgil had no fears of the conveyor collapsing under his weight, but that same weight helped build up a momentum that was almost frightening and it was only the thought that he might lose some skin off his hands that stopped him from grabbing the guard rails on both sides to try to arrest his rollercoaster ride.

Barely ten seconds after he'd started his unexpected slide Virgil reached the end. He came to rest on his back next to a pair of safety boots and with his own boots still pointing skywards.

Relieved that the trip was over, Virgil looked up at the boot's owner and, despite the laws of gravity, felt his stomach fall. He scrambled to his feet. "Ah… M-Mr Watts…"

"Mr Tancy?" Watts smiled a mirthless smile. He looked up to where the conveyor started on the gantry and his eyes followed its path down. "And may I ask what you were doing?" His voice was low and menacing.

Virgil heard the sounds of running feet, shushing, and abruptly silenced laughter. He didn't look up, preferring to concentrate on his hands that he'd clasped together tightly in front of him. "I… uh…."

"Yes, Mr Tancy…?"

"I…" Virgil squeezed his eyes shut and for once in his life wished that he had Gordon's gift of the instantaneous excuse. "I… um… tripped over my shoelace… and… I… ah… fell… It was an accident." He finished hurriedly and looked at his boss; hopeful that he sounded sincere.

"It was an accident…" Watts intoned and his face showed that he didn't believe the lie. "You tripped over your shoelace…" His eyes dropped to Virgil's feet and Virgil followed his gaze. Once again, this time aided by gravity's pull, his stomach dropped. His boots were elastic-sided, shoelace free, pull-ons.

"Now…" Watts voice sounded even more dangerous. "Tell me the truth."

Virgil couldn't look at Watts and he didn't want to look at the four men who had got him into this predicament. He stared at his own writhing hands. "It was… an accident…"

"An accident…?"

Virgil nodded.

"Come with me."

Reluctantly, but with no other option, Virgil followed his supervisor into the latter's office.

It was much later, well after afternoon tea had been finished, when he emerged, shaken. His first day of work and he'd been given a final warning. One more misdemeanour and he could kiss his job goodbye. The day couldn't get any worse, could it?

The final hour seemed to drag on forever. Enveloped in his misery Virgil continued linishing, the sounds of the factory muffled by his hearing protection. Sure he could have plugged his music into his earmuffs and made this chore more bearable, but he didn't want to risk be accused of not concentrating on his job. And so he continued… Pick up the strip of metal, remove the corners, place it in the container. Pick up the strip of metal, remove the corners, place it in the container. Pick up the strip of metal, remove the corners…

The final bell of the day sounded as good as, if not better than, every piece of music that Virgil had ever enjoyed. He dropped the last strip of metal back into the tin, turned off the linishing machine, and removed his earmuffs. He took his time to brush the swarf off the machine and sweep the area around clear of dirt.

By the time he'd finished cleaning up the locker room was empty. Stripping off his overalls, Virgil pulled on his jacket, hoisted his daypack over his shoulder and headed out through the deserted factory to his car in the empty carpark. He drove home, dropped his bag on the floor of his studio apartment, ignored the boxes that were due to be unpacked, and headed into the shower, hopeful of washing away the memories of this dreadful day.

He emerged, towelling his hair dry, when the phone rang. The caller ID lifted his spirits and the face on the videophone even more so. "Hi, Father."

"Hello, Virgil. How was your first day of paid employment?"

Not wanting to appear too negative, but not willing to lie, Virgil shrugged. "Different to what I'm used to."

"Anything interesting happen?"

"I'm starting at the bottom of the corporate ladder and I spent all day linishing." Virgil grimaced. "That's hardly an interesting job… But…" he brightened, remembering something that had come to him in the shower, "on the plus side I've thought of a great way of getting into Thunderbird Two!" At least, he reflected, he could say something good had come of this horrible day. "But I can't enter the cabin head first. We'll have to think of a way of turning me around…"

"Virgil…" Jeff interrupted his son's train of thought. "Hamish gave me a call." He sounded casual; almost too much so.

Virgil frowned. "Why?"

"He tells me that Max Watts gave you a final warning."

"He did what!?"

"The report says that you were caught behaving in a dangerous manner. That doesn't sound like you. What happened?"

This was too much. After the day he'd had the last thing Virgil wanted was some busybody snitching to his father. "He had no right to tell you!"

"He's worried about you…" Jeff was quietly conciliatory. "I am too."

"He's worried…" Virgil spluttered, more to himself than to his father. "He called you… I don't believe it… I don't believe _him_!"

"Give me the names of the people responsible and I'll make sure your record is cleared."

Virgil glared at Jeff. "I thought we'd agreed that once you'd got me this job that was the last help you'd give me."

"But I can't believe that you'd do anything reckless. I want to set the record straight…"

"Because I'm your son…"

"And because it's right. What happened, Virgil? I'd like to hear your side of the story."

"You wouldn't bother with anyone else," Virgil accused.

"Yes, I would. You know me. I believe in fair play. I want the right people held accountable."

"If it hadn't been me involved you wouldn't even know there anything to be accountable for! Hamish Mickelson would have kept his mouth shut!"

"Virgil!"

"How could he?" Virgil was still incensed by the betrayal. "How could _he_?!"

"He's my friend… He's our friend…"

"Friend!" Virgil snorted. "He's not my friend. He had no right to tell you!"

"He had every right..."

"Every right?! How do you work that out?"

"I own the business."

"So?!!! As the owner of the business does that mean he tells you of every disciplinary issue? Every little misdemeanour?"

"No… But I am your father…"

"Not at ACE you're not. We agreed, remember?"

"Virgil!"

"You're the boss and that's all! I'm not a Tracy there! Or are you trying to tell me that he rings up every employee's father when they do something wrong?!"

"No, of course not… But, Virgil…" Anger was beginning to creep into Jeff's voice.

"But nothing! Mr Mickel… Uncle Hami…" The name confusion only served to increase Virgil's fury. "He should keep his sticky nose out of my business!"

"Virgil…"

"And you can tell him I said so!

"Virgil!"

"It may have escaped your notice, but I'm an adult now!"

"I'm aware of that…"

"Or don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you!"

"It doesn't sound like it to me if you're checking up on me!"

"I'm not checking up on you! Hamish was worr…"

"If you can't trust me at ACE then are you sure you're going to be able to trust me with International Rescue? Are you going to trust me with all that expensive equipment? Are you going to trust me with people's _lives_?"

"Of course I trust you! I trust you implicitly!"

"Sure…" Virgil sneered. "Do you have your astronaut buddies ring you every time John slips up?"

"No, of course not…"

"Does Alan's manager ring you every time he cuts a corner?"

"Now don't be silly…"

"Does the Air Force phone every time Scott made a little mistake?"

"Scott never makes mistakes…!"

Virgil hung up on his father.

He stood there, breathing heavily and thinking that modern technology wasn't all it was cracked up to be if it couldn't even supply you with a handset to slam down. "How dare he?" he fumed. "How _dare_ he!?"

The phone rang, revealing a familiar caller ID.

Virgil pushed a button on the phone and the machine ceased its incessant beeping. "Talk to my voicemail," he snarled at the blank screen. "Cos I don't want to talk to you!" He stalked across to his couch and threw himself onto it. "I don't believe it!"

His cell phone played a familiar march and he switched it off and hurled it onto his bed.

Jeff Tracy's smiling face looked down on him, and Virgil launched himself at another button. The digital photo, and all others showing Jeff's likeness, morphed into a copy of one of Virgil's paintings.

The phone rang again.

"Shut up," Virgil told the instrument and it obeyed, sending the caller to the answering service. He sat down heavily on the stool that served his electronic keyboard, but was too uptight to touch the keys.

The phone rang again.

"Get lost."

The doorbell rang.

The sudden change in sound took the wind out of Virgil's sails. His father had flown back to his head office in Kansas this morning to oversee the full Tracy empire; so he knew it couldn't be him. Could it be Hamish Mickelson here to offer an apology… or demand one?

The doorbell rang again.

Grumbling to himself Virgil got to his feet and strode to the door. "Who's there?!"

"Uh… Virgil…? It's Louis Fleming and Bruce Sanders."

"Huh?" Virgil opened the door and was almost surprised to see his two work colleagues standing there. "Uh… Hi…"

"Hi…" They both offered him weak smiles.

"C-Can we come in?" Bruce asked. "If it's not too much trouble?"

"If you don't mind?" Louis added.

"Uh… Sure…" Virgil stood aside and admitted the two men. "Excuse the mess, I haven't finished unpacking… Have a seat… Um… Would you like something to drink? A beer? Coffee? Juice?" They accepted a beer each and Virgil retrieved the cans from the fridge before pouring himself something chilled from a jug. The liquid's colour was that of three-year-old paint that had separated from its pigment.

"What's that?" Bruce asked, eyeing the strange concoction up.

"Fruit juice mixture," Virgil said. "One of my Grandma's secret concoctions. Has the same kick as beer but without the drawbacks."

"Grandma's secret recipe with eleven secret herbs and spices, huh?" Louis asked with a wry smile.

Virgil grinned. "Only three actually. Do you want to try some?"

Louis made a face. "No, thanks."

Bruce was looking around. "Nice place. Must cost a lot."

"I struck it lucky," Virgil said, "The owner's looking at developing the complex, but the other tenants' contracts don't expire for a year, so he's letting me live here on a reduced rental until then." It was, he reflected with relief, so much easier to be able to tell the truth than lie. "What can I do for you guys?"

"We tried ringing earlier," Bruce began, "but we kept on getting this funny answer phone message so thought we'd come around and talk to you face-to-face."

Virgil looked at him. "Funny?"

"Yeah," Louis agreed. "Something about you being unable to come to the phone because you were painting?"

Virgil frowned. "What? Are you sure it was my phone?"

Louis nodded. "Yep. It said that 'Virgil' was unable to come to the phone. It wasn't your voice though."

"That's odd." As Virgil walked over to the videophone, Bruce took the opportunity to have a quick sniff of his host's drink. He rolled his eyes at Louis as he put the glass down.

Virgil replayed the answer phone's message and a familiar voice came out of the speaker.

"_Virgil can't answer, he's come over faint. _

_He's spent too much time sniffing his paint, _

_But never fear, you can speak to me,_

_He's bound to come round when it's time for his tea._"

"Gordon," Virgil groaned. "I might have guessed. Even when he's a half a kilometre under water he causes trouble." He looked at his guests and saw two confused expressions. "My younger brother. He's spent the last ten months in a bathyscaphe researching underwater farming methods. Even there he can't resist teasing me. He reckons that I had a funny bone transplant at birth and it didn't take…" Virgil shrugged. "The mood I'm in, maybe he's right." He turned the videophone's mute on and sat back down again.

"If he's been half a k underwater for the last ten months," Bruce began, "how did he manage to change your voicemail message?"

"They're still able to phone out. My youngest brother, Alan, helped me move in. He probably pinched the pass code and gave it to Gordon." Virgil indicated a photo of five young men laughing on a tropical beach; one of the few things that Alan had helped him unpack. "The red-head's Gordon and the blonde between us is Alan. The other blonde's my older brother John and the dark one is the eldest, Scott." Aside from Gordon's Olympic triumph, Alan's car racing and Scott's much publicised crash in Bereznick, the Tracy sons had kept out of the public eye, and Virgil felt no qualms in revealing this part of his life. He replaced the photo in time to see the word 'Father' flash up on the videophone's screen and his anger flared up again. "Leave me alone!" he threw a cushion at the phone.

"Uh... Do you often do that?"

For the briefest of moments Virgil had forgotten that he had company. "No," he admitted, shamefaced that his outburst had been witnessed. "Never… But it's been a bad day and he made it worse."

Louis cleared his throat. "That's why we're here… To apologise."

"Yes," Bruce nodded. "We didn't want to get you into trouble. It was just a test… a kind of initiation to see what kind of person you were."

"Oh…" Virgil said quietly. "Did I pass?"

"You scored higher than you did at Denver," Louis replied with a wry grin. "But why didn't you say it was our fault? You didn't have to take the rap."

Virgil shrugged. "Mr Watts would have blamed me anyway…" He sat forward. "What's he got against me?" The phone flashed 'Father' again and he ignored it. "We hadn't met until today."

"We were discussing that on the way over," Bruce revealed. "We think it's because of his son."

"Yeah," Louis agreed. "'Milli', I mean George, has been studying at Tampar Engineering College."

"Tampar's a good school," Virgil noted.

"Thank you," Bruce grinned. "It's my alma mater too. It's not as flash as Denver, but it's still got some great tutors."

Virgil agreed. "But what's that got to do with me?"

"Mega's been hoping that George'll get a job at the factory," Louis said. "The problem is that the kid is absolutely hopeless. He's been doing work experience at ACE and everything he touches seems to go wrong… But still his old man keeps on hoping that his son will follow in his footsteps and work for the great Jeff Tracy." Virgil smiled at the irreverent description. "Then all of a sudden, when no one even knew that there was a job going, you waltz in with your diploma from the best engineering school in the country, no references, and no questions asked."

Virgil sat back. "Ah."

"We think Mega's annoyed with the desk jockeys," Louis continued. "But he can't yell at them so he's taking his frustrations out on you. Don't worry about him. This time next week he'll have forgotten all about it."

Bruce agreed. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you get the job? Like Lou said, none of us knew there was a vacancy."

The ugly word 'nepotism' reared up in Virgil's mind and he looked embarrassed. "My father and Hamish Mickelson have known each other for years. They were in the Air Force together."

"Really?" It was Bruce's turn to sit forward. "Did your father know Jeff Tracy, ACE's owner? Word is that he was in the Air Force with old 'Micky' too."

"He… ah…" Virgil was getting into murky waters and this time was glad to hear the buzzing of the videophone.

"Are we interrupting you?" Louis asked. "You seem to be missing a few phone calls."

"Don't worry about it, that's what voicemail's for," Virgil waved a dismissive hand. "How'd you guys find my address?"

His guests looked sheepish. "Mega had left your file on his desk," Bruce admitted. "Lou snuck a peek and got your address and phone number."

"While Bruce kept watch," Louis added. "If I'd been caught I would have been out of a job… That's something you and I have in common, Virgil. I've got a 'bleeder' too."

Virgil was starting to feel swamped by all the nicknames and colloquialisms. "Bleeder?"

"Red final warning sheet," Bruce explained. "It was on the top page of your file. That's a bit rough; I would have thought that Mega would have let you off with a warning, since it's your first day."

"He didn't," Virgil remembered grimly. "And news of my 'misdemeanour' has gone all the way to the top."

"To the top? You mean Mega told Micky?" Bruce gasped. "Oh, man, that's rough."

The phone flashed 'Father' again.

"Let me guess… Micky told your dad?" Louis hypothesised. "And your dad's called you?" Virgil nodded. "That's why you're not talking to him?"

Virgil nodded again. "I told him to mind his own business, but I don't think he trusts me."

"Oh, man, that's rough," Bruce repeated. "A bit of a tyrant, is he? Your father?"

"No…" Virgil responded. "Actually we have a pretty good relationship." He sighed. "I guess I'm really mad with Hamish Mickelson for telling him. But I can't yell at the boss, can I?" He gave a rueful grin thinking that that was precisely what he had just done.

"What does your father do?"

"He… ah… He's setting up a new business," Virgil prevaricated.

"The one you're joining next year?" Louis asked. "Doing what?"

"I've been sworn to secrecy," Virgil said truthfully. "Business confidentiality. I'm sure you understand."

"Yeah, sure," Bruce said easily.

Virgil looked at his watch. "How about I order in pizza? I wasn't going to cook tonight anyway." He indicated the unpacked boxes. "All my kitchen gear's hidden in those somewhere."

Louis smiled. "Sounds good. But we'll pay."

"You don't have to do that," Virgil protested.

"Are you kidding?" Bruce responded. "We can't let you buy dinner for us on your first day at work before you've been paid! We'll buy the pizza. It's the least we can do after what happened today."

As far as Virgil was concerned, money wasn't an issue, but he accepted the offer with thanks.

It was late in the evening when Bruce and Louis decided it was time to leave. They were holding a muttered conversation when their host returned after disposing of the pizza boxes. "Say, Virgil," Bruce said, "we were planning on going on a skiing trip this weekend. Would you like to join us?"

Virgil looked at him in surprise and pleasure. "Do you mean that? I was planning on unpacking this weekend, but…" he looked around at the unopened boxes. "That can wait. Where are we going?"

"If," Louis looked at his long-time friend with a mixture of wry humour and exasperation, "Buzz can get that jalopy of his to work, we're heading up to the ski field north of here."

Virgil gave a slight frown. "Aren't those places rather commercialised?"

"Yep," Bruce confirmed. "But I daren't trust my old girl any further than that."

"I've got my pilot's licence," Virgil said, thinking quickly, "How about we fly somewhere more private?"

"Yeah?!" Bruce's face brightened. "Now you're talking! I get sick of all those kids running around screaming. What do you think, Lou?"

"Sounds good to me," Louis confirmed. "We can discuss it in more detail over lunch tomorrow. We'll save you a seat, Virgil…" He winked. "That's if you don't have another appointment to go to."

"Was I that obvious?" Virgil groaned. "You guys were laughing at me and no one else seemed particularly happy to see me, so…"

"Don't worry about the others," Bruce interrupted. "You passed the test so you're one of us now."

"Am I? I'm not sure Butch would agree. Why would he think I'd be interested in his wife?"

"Haven't you met Lisa yet?" Bruce asked as Louis gave an appreciative whistle and leered heavenwards. "She's a real knockout. Gorgeous! She could be a model anywhere in the world! She's got brains to burn, yet she works in our factory and has saddled herself with a walking outhouse. No one can quite believe that she's done it, including Butch, so he warns off all other males that he thinks might be a threat… Take it as a compliment."

"Yeah," Louis agreed. "They say opposites attract, but those two, they're the original odd couple, but they seem devoted to each other…" He shook his head. "I often think that ACE could do away with the press brakes and get Butch to fold the metal instead… Now that's a guy that's gotta have a 'bleeder'."

"Nah," Bruce rejoined. "He's harmless so long as he doesn't think you've got your eye on Lisa."

"Is Butch his name or nickname?" Virgil asked, wondering how long it would be before he scored a new moniker of his own. Louis in particular seemed intent on renaming everyone and everything he came in contact with.

"Name," Bruce replied. "Would you be game enough to give a guy like that a nickname? Except 'Sir', perhaps…" His eyes twinkled. "And before you ask, we've got no idea why Mega's so against it."

"But I was brought up that calling someone 'Sir' was a gesture of respect," Virgil said. "He reacted as if I'd insulted him."

"We don't know what his problem is," Louis admitted. "But don't worry about Mega. He'll soon find someone else to growl at."

"Probably us," Bruce chuckled. "For some reason, my friend," he nudged Louis, "he seems to think that you and I are a bad influence on all his other workers… He's right of course. Catch you tomorrow, Virgil."

"Yeah," Louis agreed. "Later, Veggie."

"See ya." As Virgil closed the door behind his two workmates he chuckled. 'Veggie'?

With a heart that was considerably lighter than it had been a few hours earlier, Virgil felt relaxed enough to be able to listen to his answer-phone messages without his blood pressure rising.

5:14pm: _"Virgil Tracy! Remember you are a Tracy and you will always be a Tracy no matter WHAT you decide to call yourself! Don't you ever, EVER hang up on me like that again! Tracy or Tancy you are still my son and I expect you to treat me with the respect I deserve as your father…! Answer this phone…! None of your brothers would dream of treating me like this… I know you are there, so pick up the phone…! I'm waiting… Virgil! Answer the … phone!"_

5:17pm: _"Virgil, if you don't answer this videophone call, I'm coming back there tonight! And when I get there I'll expect an apology and a full explanation from you! I'm waiting… You can't hide from me forever…! If I have to fly out there you'll be sorry and you can kiss any thoughts of keeping your job at ACE goodbye…! Answer this blasted phone!"_

5:20pm: _"Look, I'll do you a deal. If you tell me who is responsible for getting you into trouble I won't mention it again… Can you hear me, Virgil…? I know you're listening… Virgil! This is your final warning. If you don't pick up the phone, my next call is to the airport to get my plane ready… Pick up the phone!"_

5.25pm: _"If you think I don't mean it when I say that I'm coming to sort you out then you are very much mistaken. I… What is it, Mother…!?" _This message was concluded withan indistinct, unintelligible conversation.

Virgil sighed and looked at his watch, doing a quick calculation. If his father made good on his threat to return he could expect to see him any moment… and Jeff Tracy would be furious at being dragged back halfway across the States: even more furious than he had been between 5:14 and 5:25.

5:54pm: _"Virgil? Are you there?"_ This wasn't his father's voice. _"It's Hamish Mickelson… I… I was hoping to talk to you personally rather than leaving a message on a machine... If you are there please pick up the phone… … I guess you're not there… Look, I'm sorry. I had no right to call your father today. He rang a few minutes ago and told me that you were upset and I can understand why. I behaved in a manner inappropriate to the General Manager of a major corporation. It's just… your father and I go back a long way and I've known you all your life. When Max Watts told me that he'd given you that warning I couldn't believe it. I thought that there had to have been some misunderstanding. Or that perhaps you had issues that I, and Jeff, weren't aware of and I wanted to help… This isn't the way to apologise. If you don't get in too late, would you call me tonight? If not, I'll try to apologise to you personally tomorrow… But maybe not at the factory… Edna's already told me off for not treating you like an adult and I would like to apologise to you man-to-man and I guess work's not the place for that. Call me… Whatever the time… I'll be waiting… Good night, Virgil." _

6:07pm: _"Virgil? It's Edna Mickelson. That husband of mine should not have rung your father and I've told him so. We'd be delighted if you would come to dinner at our place tomorrow. It'll give your dear grandmother piece of mind to know that you're eating good wholesome home cooking. You'd be here as a friend of the family and not an employee: I will NOT let him talk shop… Let me know if you accept and I'll start planning something special."_

6:13pm: This message began with a self-conscious chuckle. _"You might want to change your voicemail message. I think your brothers have been… Yes, yes, all right, Mother. I know! I'll do it…"_

Virgil grinned. He had no doubt who was the real boss in the Tracy household.

"_Look… Virgil… … Son… I've spoken to Hamish Mickelson and we both agree that he shouldn't have phoned me. He did it because he was concerned about you, but he… that is, we… now agree that he shouldn't have involved me in what was an internal matter… And I… Well… Well, I shouldn't have carried on the way I did… I've got to remember that you are an adult and I should treat you like an adult and trust your judgement… … Yes, Mother, I'm getting to that… … Virgil, I… I'm sorry I yelled at you…"_ There was a sigh. _"I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call… Don't worry about the time… Call me… Please…"_

Firstly Virgil rang the Mickelsons to accept Hamish's apology and reluctantly decline Edna's invitation to dinner. While he normally enjoyed their company, and the thought of Aunty Edna's cooking made him drool, he had an idea that his relationship with the rest of his workmates was too fragile to risk this early in his career.

Then he rang his father.

Jeff answered the phone almost immediately. His smile of relief quickly morphed into a more rueful expression. "You took a long time to cool down… Not that I blame you. I almost expected you not to ring."

"I had guests." Virgil smiled at his father. "A couple of guys from work. I was almost expecting you to storm in through the door and give the game away."

"I was close to leaving, believe me," Jeff admitted. "Then something stopped me."

"I heard her."

Jeff chuckled. "I'm sorry about earlier; I overstepped the mark. So did Hamish. I've spoken to him and he admits that he was wrong."

"I know." Virgil responded. "I've just finished talking to him. Aunty Edna's told him off."

"He'll be on bread and water for a week."

Virgil raised an eyebrow. "And you?"

"A month."

Virgil laughed.

"Can we start this evening again?" Jeff requested. "Forget everything we said earlier? Forget that I own ACE? I'm only your father and I want to know how your first day of work went. And…" the rueful smile returned. "I'm curious. Don't tell me any names. Don't give away any secrets. But how on earth did _you_ manage to end up with a final warning on your first day?"

Virgil, taking care not to reveal anything that might incriminate anyone, gave him the full story.

"So it was an initiation?" Jeff asked. "They've got a bit more advanced since my days. We only got the new recruit to go down the road to buy striped paint; things like that."

"I know," Virgil said. "I remember you telling me. I'd even put a few of my tubes of paint in my bag in case they tried that one out on me. I wasn't expecting to be sent for a ride."

"What was it you said about getting to Thunderbird Two, this afternoon?"

"Sliding down that conveyor gave me the idea. We're concealing all the access ways to the various hangars in the lounge, aren't we?"

"That's the idea."

"How about a panel in the wall? I'll stand with my back to it, it'll tip me up and I'll slide onto a conveyor. I don't particularly fancy the idea of sliding the whole way down to the pilot's cabin head first though, so we'll have to work in a point where I can turn around."

"That gets you to the hangar," Jeff mused. "Then what? How are you going to get into your plane? Through the upper bulkhead?"

Virgil shrugged, "Why not? I could slide right off the end onto the pilot's seat."

"Or the pilot's seat could be the actual end of the conveyor and it would fold into three and lock onto the seat's pedestal…" Jeff bit his lip. "You'll still have to get out of your seat to get into your uniform though."

"True," Virgil admitted. "But then I could start warming Two up, select the appropriate pod, and get changed while that's slotting into place."

Jeff nodded slowly. "You might have something there."

"I see Rimmer Corporation's got their order in."

Jeff brightened. "Thunderbird One? Scott's going to be thrilled. How did she look?"

"Like an unexciting piece of metal."

"Good."

Virgil laughed. "Can you tell me something?"

"I'll try."

"Why does Max Watts hate being called 'sir'?"

Jeff grinned. "No one told you not to do it?"

"No," Virgil shook his head. "He nearly bit my head off after about the tenth one."

"I'm surprised he was able to hold it together that long."

Virgil looked at his father shrewdly. "You know why, don't you?"

Jeff had a sly grin. "Oh, I know all right."

"Well…? Come on, Father, spill it. Why doesn't he like being called 'sir'?"

"Now, Virgil, do you expect the owner of Aeronautical Component Engineering to tell one of his employees, and one who's only been on the job one day at that, a secret about that employee's supervisor?"

Virgil scowled. "I might have known you'd manage to twist my argument around somehow."

Jeff laughed. "If you haven't found out by the time you've finished at ACE I'll tell you. That's if Max doesn't tell you himself."

Virgil thought that would be unlikely. He yawned. "I think I'd better go to bed. It's been a tiring day."

"Okay, Virgil," Jeff conceded. "But you might want to consider changing your voicemail message first."

"Gordon…" Virgil growled. "And Alan! One day I've got to come up with a way to get even with them."

"Once Gordon's above the high tide mark I'm sure you'll think of something."

Virgil grimaced. "This is me you're talking to, remember. I couldn't even think of a plausible excuse today. I had to say that I'd tripped over my shoelace." He shook his head in exasperation.

"Do you want to fly back home this weekend?" Jeff asked. "Both your grandmother and I would like the chance to catch up with you and hear how your week's gone."

"I can't. I'm going on a skiing trip with a couple of the guys from work. I thought I'd fly them up to your property at Wooden Horse."

Jeff managed not to look disappointed. "Okay then. Maybe the following weekend?"

"I'll be starting my advanced first aid course that weekend."

This time the disappointment showed. "Oh… Okay."

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't worry about it, Virgil. That course is important for International Rescue and once that starts and we're all living together on the island, we'll probably be trying to work out ways to get away from each other."

"Gordon and Alan at least," Virgil said.

Jeff laughed. "Well… I'd better let you go."

"Give my love to Grandma."

"I will. Enjoy your trip this weekend."

Virgil smiled. "I will. I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun…"

_To be continued…_


	2. A Quiet Interruption

**2: A Quiet Interruption**

It had been a long and arduous week. Long and arduous because it had been made up of one mind-numbing, repetitive job after another. If it wasn't linishing, it was drilling endless holes, and if it wasn't drilling it was using the press to punch out bracket after bracket after bracket… It wasn't until Wednesday that Virgil had decided that he had shown himself dedicated enough to the job to not incur Max Watts' wrath by piping music into his earmuffs. The music had made a difference… But not much…

Virgil Tracy, known to those present as Virgil Tancy, listened to his own voice and then snapped his cell phone off.

A twig in the fire snapped and rolled off the log sending up sparks into the darkness and Bruce Sanders pushed it back into place. "You're becoming paranoid over that voicemail message. You do realise that don't you?"

"Not paranoid," Virgil corrected. "I just know my brother. And once he thinks of a prank like this he'll keep doing it over and over again until he gets bored with it." He pushed the phone into his pocket and relaxed. It had been a good idea of his to come to this simple, but warm, one room cabin.

"Oh… Say, Virgil…" Bruce nudged the twig back into place again. "The two of us were hoping that you'll clear up a big question mark over you…"

Virgil looked at him, wondering if somehow his true identity had been revealed to his two companions. "Yes?"

"Sometimes I'm sure I see you working with your right hand…"

Virgil chuckled. "Oh, yes…"

"Yeah," Louis Fleming added. "But I'm sure I've seen you working with your left."

"So you've got us wondering," Bruce said. "Which hand do you write with?"

"It depends on which hand my pen is in," Virgil told him. "I can write or draw with either."

"You're ambidextrous?" Louis asked.

Virgil nodded. "That's right. It comes in handy sometimes."

"I'll bet it does," Bruce exclaimed. "I'd give my right hand to be ambidextrous."

Louis groaned. "That joke's older than these trees," he said waving his hand at the centuries old pines that were dark silhouettes beyond the cabin windows.

"Show us," Bruce begged. "Draw something with both."

"I can't do it at the same time," Virgil told him, reaching into a nearby backpack and pulling out his sketch pad. He paused, pencil hanging over the paper. "What do you want me to draw?"

"How good an artist are you?" Louis asked.

Virgil gave a modest shrug. "Not bad."

"Could you draw Buzz's jalopy?"

"Okay." Virgil had often seen Bruce's rusting mode of transport over this past week and had a pretty good idea of how to translate it into a suitable caricature. He drew the front of the vehicle with his right hand and the rear with his left. "How's that?" he asked, handing over the pad.

Bruce gave a whistle. "I'm impressed."

"How do you learn something like that?" Louis asked.

"I didn't. It was just something I was born with," Virgil admitted. He put the pad back in his bag, stretched and gave a sigh of contentment. "You don't know how much I've been hanging out for this."

"We can hazard a guess," Bruce said. "Mega hasn't been off your back since the moment you started."

"Yeah," Louis agreed. "He's really got it in for you, Veggie."

Virgil regarded his companions. Over this past week he'd got to know them better and was beginning to form firm opinions about them. Bruce in many ways was like Gordon. Easy going, friendly, a joker, but with a serious side that quickly came to the fore whenever the situation demanded, and Virgil was coming to regard him as a friend. Louis Virgil wasn't so sure about. While he was similar in personality to Bruce, there was a malicious edge to him that would never be found in Gordon, and one that Virgil couldn't quite take to. The nickname of 'Veggie', while it had been funny at first, had been used so often and in such a way that Virgil was rapidly growing tired of it.

"Why are we talking about work anyway?" Louis asked. "It's the weekend, time to forget all about it." He reached into a chiller. "Want a beer, Veggie?"

"No, thanks, one'll do me. I'll make do with Grandma's juice."

"Come on, another won't hurt you."

"Not now," Virgil agreed. "But I'm flying the three of us out of here tomorrow, and I'm sure you'd rather that I had a clear head."

"I thought we weren't leaving until tomorrow afternoon," Bruce remarked. "I should hope you'd be well and truly sober by then."

"So would I, but if something happens, say the weather starts closing in and we decide to leave early, I want to be in a fit state to pilot."

"We came out here to enjoy ourselves!" Louis held out a can of beer to Virgil. "Relax. You don't have Mega looking over your shoulder now. Here!"

"No, thanks," Virgil reiterated, raising his glass. "I'm quite happy with this."

"Why don't you pour some beer in it?" Louis suggested. "It might improve the flavour and loosen you up a bit." He twitched the can in Virgil's direction.

"Leave him, Lou," Bruce sighed, pushing Louis' arm away from where it was hovering in front of his face. "If he doesn't want a beer, he doesn't want a beer. So what?"

"So… I thought we came out here to enjoy ourselves… Not kill the party before it's even started."

"I'd rather that Virgil 'killed the party' rather than kill us," Bruce told him. "Now put that beer back in the chiller and give me one that you haven't shaken up."

Grumbling to himself, Louis threw him another can, before he opened the beer and drank most of it.

"So, Virgil," Bruce said. "What can you do with both hands apart from draw and write?"

"Practically anything," Virgil admitted. "I'm slightly more predisposed to using my left, but in general it doesn't matter which hand I use."

A branch snapped sending more sparks skyward into the blackness.

"I see the Big Cheese is making his monthly visit on Monday," Louis commented.

This sudden change in subject threw his companions slightly. "I thought we'd agreed we weren't discussing work," Bruce said.

"The Big Cheese?" Virgil queried, guessing that he probably already knew the answer.

"Jeff Tracy," Bruce said. "Our lord and master. He likes to visit regularly to make sure that his minions are behaving themselves."

"What's he like?" Virgil asked, thinking that that was the question that anyone who didn't know Jeff Tracy except by reputation would ask.

"Actually he's not a bad guy," Bruce said. "He makes an effort to get to know his workers by name. When he's talking to you he seems to be genuinely interested in you and what you're doing."

"Yeah," Louis said. "If he'd gone into the movies he could have won an Oscar."

"Do you think it's all an act?" Virgil asked, knowing it wasn't.

"Must be," Louis grunted into his can of beer. "He's got all this dough. Why should he worry about us? We're nothing to him."

"Maybe he genuinely cares about people?" Virgil suggested.

"Trust me," Louis drawled. "A guy who starts with nothing and ends up a billionaire has trampled a few people on the way. The only thing Jeff Tracy cares about is the bottom line."

"Come on, Lou," Bruce admonished. "He's not that bad. What about that time that Warrick Templeton's daughter had that accident in Hawaii? Jeff Tracy got Warrick a flight there in one of his private jets. No charge. No fuss."

"Warrick Templeton's ACE's top draftsman," Louis said. "It was in Tracy's interests to get him there and back A.S.A.P. He was looking after his own interests."

"But isn't that part of his ethos?" Bruce asked. "He knows that if he treats his employees right, then we'll treat him right."

"How was his daughter?" Virgil asked, not having heard this particular story.

"Tracy doesn't have a daughter, only sons," Louis informed him.

"No, I meant Warrick Templeton's daughter. What was the accident?"

"It was a car crash and she was pretty badly injured," Bruce said. "Broken legs, pelvis, concussion… I think there might have been some internal injuries. She's still not quite right, isn't she, Lou; but they're hopeful she'll make a full recovery."

Louis threw another log on the fire. "I'll bet Tracy never took his kids camping." He took a swig at his can.

Virgil said nothing. In the early years, when Jeff Tracy was in the process of building up his fledgling business he made a point of taking the family on a camping trip at least once a month, whatever the weather. For Jeff, it was a chance to get right away from the stresses of daily life and enjoy some quality time with his boys. For Virgil and his brothers this was the time when they had their father's undivided attention. From their father they learnt woodcraft, survival skills, and how to face uncomfortable and unpleasant situations without complaint; such as that time when it didn't stop raining all weekend and the tent developed a leak.

Those weekends were some of the happiest memories of Virgil's childhood years.

"Nope," Louis was continuing. "They were probably brought up by a nanny who responded to their beck and call. I'll bet the first thing they learnt to do was snap their fingers so she'd come running."

"How many kids did he have?" Bruce asked. "Four? Five?"

"Five," Virgil confirmed without thinking. His workmates looked at him and he covered his tracks quickly, glad of the fire as an excuse for his burning face. "I read an article on him before I started."

"There was publicity about his family?" Bruce exclaimed. "That's unusual. Most of his private life kept pretty… well… private." He gave an abashed grin. "What else did it say?"

"Uh…" Virgil prevaricated. "I can't remember."

"I know this much," Louis boasted. "The eldest is some sort of hotshot in the Air Force… At least he thinks he is. Remember how he got shot down in Bereznick last year?"

Virgil nodded as Bruce exclaimed: "I remember! Tracy must have gone ballistic when he discovered his son was in the news."

Virgil bit his tongue. Maybe not quite ballistic; but it sure was close.

"Tracy was in the Air Force too," Louis continued, warming to his theme. "He probably got his son in through the old boys' network. The guy can't be much of pilot if he let himself get shot out of the sky by Bereznickies."

"Didn't he get some kind of award for that?" Bruce had screwed up his face as he tried to remember the few facts he'd heard about the Tracy clan. "Isn't the second one doing something with the space programme? He…"

"No, that's the middle kid," Louis interrupted. "The second one's some kind of artist."

"I thought the middle one was the artist."

"No, the second one is the artist…"

"I'm sure it's the second one that's the space cadet," Bruce persisted. "I remember Mickelson saying something, sometime about him taking after his old man too and becoming an astronaut."

"When did you ever have a conversation with old Micky?"

"I didn't. I had to take something into the office and I overheard Micky having a chat with Tracy."

"Okay, so whichever one he is in the order of things, we agree he's an astronaut, right?"

"Right."

"I heard a whisper that the only reason why he got into the space programme was because of his old man…"

Virgil knew that John would not take kindly to the suggestion that he'd gained access to the elite world of space exploration because of anything other than his own talents and abilities, but as he had already decided that it was safer not to say anything, he didn't correct Louis.

…Who was still slandering the Tracy family. "…Apparently the kid was a bit of a dreamer. He always had his head in the stars so Tracy made him an astronaut…" Louis laughed at his own wit.

John had often been described in this way, so Virgil felt free to laugh along with the others.

"Okay, Lou," Bruce challenged. "Since you're such an expert on the Tracys, tell us about this artist. Where ever he fits into the line up."

"Well… He's an artist…" Louis offered. "He's, ah…"

"He's a mystery," Bruce offered. "I've never heard of him being in the limelight. He can't be that good at painting or sculpting or whatever it is he does."

Virgil suppressed a smile.

"What do you know about the art world?" Louis asked.

"Well… Nothing…" Bruce admitted.

"And you're surprised you've never heard of him?"

"No… Hang on! Isn't that one of his paintings of some mountains in ol' Micky's office?"

The rendition of Hamish Mickelson's hometown had been a present given by Jeff Tracy on the occasion of his friend's 15th anniversary in charge of ACE. Virgil had forgotten that the painting hung in pride of place in Hamish Mickelson's office and briefly wondered if its presence would be enough to expose his identity.

"The family's probably ashamed of this artistic son," Louis said, suddenly confident in his story telling as he started another beer. "That's right!" He snapped his fingers as if a long buried memory had surfaced. "I heard that he's the black sheep of the family. An outcast! You know, long hair, beard, always spaced out on some drug or other, always in trouble with the law, into these really wild scenes. He's a disgrace to the Tracy name and Jeff Tracy's disowned him. His brothers refuse to talk to him."

Virgil looked at Louis in astonishment, not knowing whether to laugh at or be angry. With an effort he reminded himself that if he didn't say anything, he couldn't give himself away.

"Come on, Lou…" Bruce was saying. "That can't be right. You're making it up!"

"I swear it's true."

"Yeah, right."

"The fourth one was swimmer," Louis said, sidestepping the argument. "He won a gold medal at the Olympics." He took a swig at his beer.

"Doing what?"

"Swimming."

"I know that you idiot. Which variant of swimming? Which stroke?"

"Uh…" Louis thought for a moment. "Freestyle," he hazarded and Virgil didn't correct him.

"That's as logical as anything you've said tonight," Bruce sneered.

"Well, you did ask the question."

"I suppose now you're going to tell us that the youngest is a ballet dancer…"

This was too much. Virgil barked out a laugh at the image of Alan in a tutu.

Even Louis gave a boozy grin. "Of course not. You know as well as I do that Alan Tracy's into car racing. There's a good chance he'll win the championship this year…" He frowned in thought and stared short-sightedly into the fire. "Do you realise that apart from the swimmer's fifteen minutes of fame, he's the only Tracy son to make the headlines?"

"True, but have you noticed how he never gives interviews and refuses to let himself be photographed?" Bruce asked. "Do you think it's a superstition or an order from his old man?"

"Knowing Tracy Senior, Alan Tracy's probably well and truly under his father's thumb."

"Wearing a ballet frock."

The three men laughed at this mental image.

"Is Jeff Tracy married?" Bruce wondered. "You never see him with his wife and you never hear about her?"

"Where have you been?" Louis asked. "She died years ago. Tracy probably wore her out having so many children."

Virgil frowned. They were getting into territory he wasn't comfortable with.

"I remember!" Bruce exclaimed. "I thought it was some kind of accident."

Whether the beer was doing something to Louis' mind or whether he was enjoying making up stories for his audience's benefit, he seemed to have lost all grasp with reality. "Yeah. It was a car accident. She was leaving Tracy for another man… It was hushed up at the time for their kids' sake."

Virgil stared at him. "What!"

"Yeah!" Louis said, with a floppy wave of his hand. "She'd been playing around for years. Every time Tracy was heading off into space; he'd no sooner be out the door and she'd have thomeone else in her bed…"

Virgil felt his hands balling up into fists.

"…and then nine months after the space flight, bang! Out would pop another kid."

"Louis…" Virgil began.

In his drunken haze, Louis didn't hear him. "After she died they did a paternity tetht on th' kidth…"

"…No…"

"Know wha' they found out?"

"…Stop this…"

"Only the eldes' was Tracy's."

"NO!" Virgil found himself being stared at by his two companions.

"What is it, Virgil?" Bruce asked, surprised by the venom in his friend's voice.

Virgil took a deep breath to get his anger under control. "I… I don't think we should be talking about this. We're slandering Jeff Tracy's and his family's good name."

"Shlander?" Louis drawled. "Itsh only shlander if it not true."

"But it isn't true," Virgil insisted.

"I'll admit that it sounds a bit far fetched," Bruce said. "But how do you know for sure that it isn't true?"

Virgil shrunk back into the shadows. "I just know, okay?"

"How?" Louis demanded.

Virgil kicked at the fire as if he wanted to bury the conversation. "I just do."

"Shure," Louis sneered. "I s'ppoze they taught you tha' at Denva too?" He belched into the flames.

Virgil ran his hand over his face and came to a decision. "If I tell you guys something that no one else at work knows about me, will you promise to keep it a secret?"

"Shecret?" Louis drawled. "Oh, goodie…" He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and opened another beer.

"Oh, put that away," Bruce said peevishly. "You've had too much. What's this secret, Virgil?"

"Please promise not to tell anyone else?" Virgil begged. "If you tell other people it'll… Well… It could change things..."

"Now, you've really got me curious," Bruce said. "I won't tell anyone. Scout's honour!" He flipped a salute and Virgil looked at Louis. "Don't worry about him. He probably won't even remember what you tell us tomorrow."

"I godda good memory," Louis protested. "I 'membered tha' about Tracy didn' I?"

Bruce dismissed the boast. "That was rubbish that you made up tonight."

"It'sh true!"

"No, it's not, Louis," Virgil insisted. "Lucille and Jefferson Tracy loved each other."

"But how do you know that?" Bruce said. "Do you know them?"

"I… ah…" Still unsure if he was doing the right thing, Virgil hesitated.

Bruce was looking at him with an intense expression. "You don't want to tell us, do you?"

Feeling miserable Virgil shook his head. "It's not that I don't trust you guys…"

"But you don't think you know us well enough yet?"

Virgil gave the young man an apologetic smile. "We've only known each other one week."

"Well, you don't need to worry about me, I can keep a secret. How about you, Lou?"

"How abou' me wha'?"

Bruce sighed, clearly fed up with his workmate's drunken behaviour. "Do you promise to keep Virgil's secret secret?"

"Shecret," Louis' eyes appeared to look right through him. "Wha' zecret?"

"Any secrets, you idiot."

"Oh, yeah. I c'n do tha'."

Bruce looked away in disgust. "I think you can take that as a 'yes', Virgil. Now what's this secret?"

Virgil picked up a twig and snapped it. "I… My…" He snapped the twig again. "My last name's not 'Tancy'."

"Huh?" Bruce stared at him, while Louis didn't appear to be listening. "_Not_ Tancy?"

"No."

"But why? Why go by another name? What's wrong with your name?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. I'm quite proud of it, but I wanted to be treated the same as everyone else at ACE. I didn't want any special treatment…" Virgil broke the twig into smaller pieces.

"Special treatment? Why would anyone do that?"

Virgil managed to look at him. "Because of who my father is."

Bruce gave him a sideways look and Virgil could almost see him putting two and two together. "And your father is…?"

"Jeff Tracy."

There was silence.

Bruce was the first to speak. "You're Jeff Tracy's son?"

"Yes." Virgil gave an unconvincing chuckle. "I'm the 'black sheep' artist."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No," Virgil repeated the chuckle. "My brothers say that I don't know how to kid…"

"You're…" Bruce tailed off as the realisation of what he'd been told hit him. "Oh, heck." Then he grinned. "You don't look like someone who's into 'wild scenes'."

Virgil, relieved at the way his friend was taking the news, chuckled. "You see, that's how I know that Louis is wrong about my parents. Ma loved…"

"You bin spyin' on us!" The shout took both Virgil and Bruce by surprise. They'd almost forgotten that Louis was listening.

"No, I haven't," Virgil protested. "I wouldn't…"

"You bin spyin'" Louis repeated. "You tol' Jeff Trazy that we got you inta trouble!"

"No, I didn't, Louis," Virgil responded. "That's why he and I had that argument last Monday. Hamish Mickelson was worried about what happened and he told Father, which he shouldn't've. Father wanted me to tell him who was behind it all so he could clear my record, but I refused. I don't want to get you guys into trouble."

"Well, that explains how a guy who's just graduated can afford a flash studio apartment, a halfway decent car and his own plane." Bruce gave a dry chuckle. "I don't believe it! We got the boss's son a final warning on his first day of work. That's priceless…" He laughed and Virgil managed a wry grin of his own.

But Louis didn't appear to find humour in the situation. "Don' you know what he done?" he demanded of Bruce. "He got us to get him a bleeder. I've go' a bleeder! You know wha' tha' means, dontcha?"

"Virgil didn't ask us to get him a bleeder, Louis," Bruce said patiently. "That was your idea."

"I ain't got a zecond chance," Louis ranted. "Coz of him I'm out of a job!"

"You're not out of a job," Bruce soothed. "Virgil hasn't, and won't, tell his father who pushed him. Right, Virgil…"

"He'll tell…"

"No, I won't, Louis. I promise…"

Bruce patted Louis on the shoulder. "Don't you think that if he were going to get us into trouble he would have done it by now?"

Louis shook his friend's hand free. "But that was before I zaid 'bout his fam'ly."

"I'm sure that if you tell Virgil you're sorry he'll forgive you," Bruce offered. "Right, Virgil?" Virgil, more than happy to let bygones be bygones, nodded. "See. Now say you're sorry and then let's turn in for the night. We can start the new day with no secrets."

But, either because of the drink or his own stubbornness, Louis appeared unable to apologise. "I'm not sorry for speakin' the truth."

Virgil tried to remain calm. "Part of what you said about us is true. But every word you said about Ma was wrong. My father and mother loved each other. Her death nearly killed him."

"'Im!" Louis waved a sloppy finger under Virgil's nose. "Nearly killed 'im. Bu' wha' I said waz the truth."

"No, it wasn't…"

"Your mudda waz leavin' your fadda…"

"Shut up, Louis," Bruce hissed.

Virgil attempted to keep control of his anger. "No, she wasn't."

"She 'ad 'nudder man."

"There was no 'other' man in the car! Only…"

"I know why you don' uze the name Trazy!" Louis said triumphantly, pointing a wavering finger at Virgil.

"Shut up, Louis!" Bruce had seen a dangerous light in Virgil's eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about."

The finger continued its unsteady accusation. "You're 'shamed of your name!"

"No, I'm not!"

Bruce got to his feet and pulled on Louis' arm. "I think you should go to bed…!"

"Get off!" Louis pulled his arm free and resumed pointing. "You 'shamed! You 'shamed coz Jeff Trazy not your fadda!" He gave a triumphant cackle.

This was too much. Virgil sprang to his feet. "You take that back!"

"Jeff Trazy not your fadda," Louis taunted.

Unwilling to stay, unable to trust himself not to lash out, Virgil Tracy turned on his heel and strode out the door towards his aeroplane's hangar.

He heard a voice behind him. "You 'shamed, Veggie…" followed by the cackling laugh. "You 'shamed coz your madda a trollop!"

Virgil opened the hangar door.

"Shut up, Louis!" Bruce stormed. "How would you like it if someone called your mother a trollop?"

Louis seemed surprised by the question. "Bu' she iz one."

"That explains why you're a…"

Virgil slammed the door behind him. He climbed into the aeroplane, threw himself into the pilot's seat and sat there glowering at the controls. On impulse he flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialled his own number.

Gordon's voice answered:

"_Virgil's not here_

_He's playin' the piana.,_

_But I'll give your message,_

_To his gal, Pollyanna."_

"Gordon!" Virgil shouted uselessly into his own answer-phone. "Leave my messages alone!" He hung up, redialled, and reprogrammed the answering service.

He'd cooled down somewhat when there was a knock on the plane's fuselage. He looked through the cockpit windows to see the door open and a flag made out of an off-white t-shirt tied to a stick above Bruce's head. "I come in peace," he flag bearer stated. "Is it safe to enter your domain?"

"Come in," Virgil said. "I won't bite."

Bruce entered the plane and shut the door behind him. "It's not biting I'm worried about. I think you'd told me you've done some martial arts training and I'd like to be reassured I'm going to leave here in one piece." He settled into the passenger's seat in the cockpit. "What are you doing?"

"I needed to talk to someone." Virgil glanced at his watch. "So I was going to call my brother when he'd finished dinner."

Bruce looked at the dead control panel and closed phone. "Why wait?"

Virgil managed a chuckle. "You don't know Scott. Nothing comes between him and his food."

"And which was he in our mess of uninformed inaccuracies?"

"He's the eldest. The one in the Air Force. He's actually a better pilot than I am…" Bruce heard the pride in Virgil's voice. "He got an award for the way he landed that plane in Bereznick." He looked at his watch again.

"Look…" Bruce stared out through the windshield into the darkness. "I'm sorry about what we said, but we didn't know your relationship to Mr Tracy."

Virgil glanced at him. "Would you normally call him 'Mr Tracy'?"

Bruce's smile was rueful. "I would to his face, or to ol' Micky… I mean, Mr Mickleson, or Mr Watts."

"See, that's why I'm going under an alias. I don't want people to think 'Oh, he's Jeff Tracy's son. I'd better be careful what I say'. I want people to relax and treat me like anyone else."

"I expect what we were saying about your family came as a bit of a surprise."

Virgil smiled. "It was interesting at first. I mean, I know we five are fair game because we've tried to keep a low profile; but that's because we all hate publicity. Back when Ma was killed, I can remember trying to get into the hospital where I thought they were keeping her and this photographer stuck his camera into our faces. Just because our father was a famous astronaut!"

"Rough."

"Yeah. All I wanted to do was see my mother and this huge guy from the press was blocking our way! You can't imagine what an impact that had on young kids."

"Must have been a tough time," Bruce commented.

Virgil nodded. "Louis said that it must be because of Father that we shy away from publicity, and that's partially true. We saw what effect that constant press attention had on him, and us, and we don't want to be part of that again." Virgil sighed. "I know that people who work for him are bound to talk about him. He's famous enough to be an object of interest and I can live with that. But what Louis said about Ma…" He balled his hand up into a fist.

"I understand," Bruce acknowledged. "And I'm impressed. If someone had been talking like that about my mother I think I would have hauled off and punched him!"

"I was tempted."

"So I see." Bruce indicated the clenched fist and Virgil looked down as if he were surprised at what he was doing.

He shook his hand to refresh the circulation. "I'm sorry that I had to lie to you guys. But, you do understand why, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand and don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

Virgil smiled at him. "Thanks. But what about…" he indicated the cabin and its drunken occupant.

"Don't worry about Louis. He knows full well that if he spills the beans about who you are, then you could just happen to mention to your father who got you into trouble. He's got a final warning too and he knows that sending the boss' son on a roller-coaster ride is guaranteed instant dismissal. He won't say anything; deep down he's a coward…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The following morning dawned clear, but the atmosphere in the cabin was oppressive. Virgil, feeling that his associates' attitude to him had changed dramatically and not for the better, kept largely to himself. Louis, nursing a sore head, maintained a sullen silence. Bruce, feeling like some kind of U.N. Peacekeeper, attempted to jolly things along without success.

By mid-morning they all decided that the best thing to do was fly home again.

Their gear having been safely stowed in the plane, Virgil took one last look around the cabin to ensure it was just how his grandmother would leave it. Satisfied, he locked the door, turned to return to the aircraft…

"Ouch!"

Bruce Sanders stepped closer. "What have you done?"

"Impaled myself on that twig." Virgil indicated his right hand, which had blood oozing from a small wound.

"That was clever. At least it's bleeding. That'll help clean it."

Virgil examined the injury. "I think I've got a splinter in there."

"Can you get it out?"

"No, but it's not a problem. I'll leave it."

"You'd better stick a plaster on it if you don't want blood all over the cockpit." Bruce's eyes twinkled. "Maybe we can convince Louis to kiss it better."

Virgil screwed up his face. "I think all that poison would make it worse!" He submitted to Bruce's assistance in dressing the wound before climbing past Louis Fleming, who was already seated, and into the pilot's seat. "Safety harnesses on."

There was one click behind him as Bruce did up his safety harness. Virgil waited for the second click but none was forthcoming. "Could you put your safety harness on please, Louis?"

"No."

"This plane doesn't leave the ground until everyone's safely strapped in."

"Why? Don't you think you can 'leave the ground' safely?" Louis taunted.

Virgil heard Bruce's exasperated sigh and refused to rise to Louis' bait. "I know I can, but that still won't make me take off until I know everyone's secure."

"Why not?" Louis taunted again. "Gonna make Daddy make me?"

"Because it's not safe. You wear your personal protective equipment at work, don't you?"

Louis didn't reply.

"But you don't put on your P.P.E. because you think you're going to need them," Virgil continued. "You put them on _in case_ you need them."

"Put it on, Lou," Bruce instructed.

"You keep out of it, Buzz."

Virgil turned in his seat and looked at Louis who folded his arms and glared defiantly back. Virgil gave a nonchalant shrug. "Okay. If that's the way you want it." He reached into a locker, pulled out a sketch pad, and started drawing the mountains that encircled their cabin.

He was enjoying his drawing and had almost forgotten about his companions and when he heard a muffled curse and a familiar click. "All done up tight?" he asked as he slipped the pad back into the locker.

"Aye, aye, Capt'n," Bruce replied.

A short time later the little plane was heading for the skies.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Monday morning. The start of another week at Aeronautical Component Engineering.

Virgil had made his way to work, amazed at how this time last week he'd been so excited at starting his new job, whereas now… Now the idea of a day at ACE had all the appeal of a tooth extraction.

Virgil, the top of his overalls tied around his waist, found a spot outside, away from his colleagues, and sat down to try to recharge his batteries. His right hand, the one he'd impaled on the twig back at the campsite, had ached for much of the night and he hadn't got any sleep. He examined his hand morosely. He'd managed to apply a fresh bandage, but the skin around it had reddened and was starting to swell…

"Is this where you're hiding?"

Virgil looked up. "Oh… Hi, Bruce."

"What are you doing skulking around here?"

"It's cooler."

"Cooler?" Bruce lost his jovial smile. "Are you all right? You're looking a bit pale."

"I'm okay."

"Virgil?" Bruce crouched down so he was closer to Virgil's eye level. In doing so he caught a glimpse of the new bandage. "Your hand's looking a bit inflamed."

"It's okay."

"You should let the doctor have a look at it."

"I will," Virgil admitted. "I'll make an appointment for the morning tea break."

"I don't know that you should wait that long," Bruce warned.

"The doctor doesn't arrive until nine," Virgil reminded him. "Fifty minutes won't matter."

Bruce didn't agree. "Tell Mega you're going to see the quack…"

"I've only been at work a week," Virgil protested. "How's it going to look if I try to take time off now!?"

"Then I'll cover for you."

"You can't do that; you might get into trouble…"

"Virgil…"

"Bruce! I'm okay!" Virgil snapped. "I don't need to see the doctor yet!" Bruce looked taken aback and Virgil immediately felt ashamed of his outburst. "I'm sorry. It's only for two-and-a-bit hours and then I'll get it checked out."

"Are you going to be able to work with only your left hand?"

Virgil favoured him with a wry smile. "I'm ambidextrous, remember?"

"Yes, but you'll need two good hands in there, unless you tell Mega you want light duties."

"He'll give me light duties anyway," Virgil forced an ironic laugh. "He promised me that I could start the day linishing those components."

"Don't forget that your father's coming to visit the shop today. Are you going to be able to hide that hand from him?"

Virgil had forgotten about Jeff's impending visit. "Oh, heck… I'm going to have to somehow." He rubbed his forehead with his good arm. It came away wet. "Why does he have to visit today of all days?" he asked.

"I take it that was a rhetorical question."

From somewhere in the bowels of the factory an alarm sounded.

"Well, there's our call to action," Bruce joked half-heartedly. "Let's see what Mega's got lined up for us…" He watched Virgil slowly rise to his feet. "You'd better put your overalls on properly."

Virgil slid his injured hand into the sleeve and winced as the cloth pulled against the inflammation.

"Here," Bruce grabbed the sleeve. "Let me help." He held the material clear of the injury as Virgil slid the hand through and then assisted with the other sleeve. "Come on. We're going to be late."

Max Watts didn't notice their arrival, a minute after everyone else. Louis Fleming did though and he nudged Burt and Paul before whispering something.

Virgil eyed them nervously. "Do you think he's told them?"

"Nah," Bruce replied. "Like I said yesterday. He's a coward."

Watts appeared to be in a state of excitement as he doled out his subordinates' tasks for the day. "He's always like this whenever we have a royal visit," Bruce explained and Virgil managed a smile. He accepted his relatively easy task of linishing with relief and started work.

He'd been at it for about an hour, each component seemingly weighing more than the previous, when he became aware of a minor commotion behind him. He kept his head down and kept working.

"Stop working!" someone shouted into his earmuffs.

With a mixture of relief and dread Virgil did as he was told. He casually rested his injured arm out of sight on a ledge behind the linisher and removed his earmuffs with a strained smile.

His father, looking at first surprised and then concerned, and Max Watts, looking like a puppy eager to please, were standing there. "Mr Tracy," Watts said with an important air. "Let me introduce you to our newest employee, Virgil Tancy."

As quick as he could, Virgil extended his left hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Tracy. Were you a Boy Scout?"

"Why… Yes… Yes, I was," Jeff replied, accepting the universal Scouting handshake. "I take it you were too?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I was in Scouts," Watts said, keen to be included in his employer's circle. He hadn't seemed to have noticed Virgil's awkward stance.

"Virgil…" Jeff mused. "It's not a common name. One of my sons is named Virgil too; after Virgil Grissom, the astronaut."

Virgil could imagine that his father had been rehearsing that line all weekend. "That's a coincidence," he replied. "So did my father."

"Tancy's straight out of the Denver School of Advanced Technology," Watts boasted. "He graduated top in his year. No one but the best for ACE."

Jeff ignored the boast and looked Virgil straight in the eye. "Are you feeling all right, son? You're looking a little flushed."

"I'm feeling fine…" Virgil managed to bite back a 'Father', decided against using 'Sir', and eventually ended up with a belated, "Mr Tracy".

Jeff's eyes left Virgil's and followed the line of his arm down to where it was hidden by the machine. "Have you got something wrong with your hand?"

"My hand?" Virgil showed his left hand. "It's fine."

"I meant your right one," Jeff growled.

Virgil had only a split second in which to think. "Oh, my right one!" he said quickly. "It's got a slight scratch on it, we went skiing this weekend, but it's nothing much."

"May I see it?" Jeff asked.

Virgil considered defying his father, but he knew from Jeff's tone of voice that the elder man wouldn't take no for an answer. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from behind the machine.

Jeff looked at the red, swollen tissue then at Virgil. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"Ah, no," Virgil admitted, feeling guilty. "I was going to see him during the next break."

Jeff turned to Watts. "And you let this man work with his hand in that state?"

Watts withered under Jeff's gaze. "I… ah…"

Virgil leapt to his supervisor's defence. "He didn't know. I didn't tell him." He received a furious glare from Max Watts and a visual scolding from his father.

Jeff looked at his watch. "0845 hours. The doctor should be arriving soon. You," he looked pointedly at Virgil, "are to go to his surgery right now and ask to see him immediately. Tell him I sent you. Understand?"

Feeling suitably chastened, Virgil hung his head. "Yes, Sir."

"I will be along shortly to ensure that you have carried out my orders."

Virgil gave his father a pleading look, but repeated his "Yes, Sir."

"Now," Jeff turned back to Watts. "What else do you have to show me?"

---F-A-B---

Upon hearing that the owner of the company had sent Virgil along for treatment, Doctor Daldy had accepted Virgil into his surgery immediately. After an examination, blood tests and the bandage replaced by a new one and a sling, they both emerged into the front office to find Jeff sitting alone, waiting patiently. "How is this young man, William?

"Hello, Mr Tracy. Well, I'm afraid you won't be getting any work out of him for the rest of the week. I've advised rest."

Virgil couldn't look at his father. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Now, let's just fill in the details of your visit and then you can go." The doctor rifled through some cards. "I'll update this in the computer later…" He read something and clicked his tongue. "It says here under 'next of kin' to see Mr Mickelson," he said. "Is he a relative?"

"No," Virgil responded. "Not exactly."

Doctor Daldy clicked his tongue again. "I'm sorry, but that won't do. I've got to have the name of your next of kin in case of emergencies." He sat at the desk with his pen at the ready. "It can be anyone in your family; mother, father, siblings, grandparent…cousin…" He looked at Virgil expectantly.

Virgil looked down to where his left hand was toying with the material of his new sling. "Uh… Father."

"'Father'," Dr Daldy dictated as he wrote. "Name?"

Virgil glanced at his father whose face was impassive. "Umm… Jeff."

"Jeff," the doctor recited. "With a 'J' or a 'G'?"

"J."

"Ah. The proper way," Dr Daldy beamed at his employer and wrote J.E.F.F. "Last name 'Tancy'…"

"No…" Virgil interrupted.

The doctor stopped writing. His pen still at the end of the crossbar of the letter 'T'. "No?"

"No… My… My last name's not Tancy," Virgil admitted.

"Your name's not Tancy?" Dr Daldy repeated. "It says Tancy on your card."

"I know," Virgil admitted.

"Then what is your last name." Virgil didn't answer. "Is it the same as your father's?" Virgil nodded. "Come, come now. I know it seems trivial, but it could be important at some point in the future." The doctor received no response. "Now, Virgil. What is your last name? Remember patient confidentiality. No one else need know if you wish to maintain this 'Tancy' charade. Ah…" he glanced at Jeff, "would you rather we conducted this interview alone in my office?"

"No," Virgil said. "Fa… Ah, he knows who I am."

"Then would you care to share it with me?" William Daldy asked.

Virgil shot his father an agonised look then resumed his inspection of his sling. "Tracy," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get that."

"Tracy."

Dr Daldy began writing. "Jeff Tra…" He stopped; pen mid-air and stared at what was on the page. Then he looked at Jeff.

"Yes," Jeff confirmed. "Virgil is my son."

"Oh," said the doctor.

"We didn't want anyone to know of our relationship so that he'd be treated like all of the other employees."

"Oh," the doctor repeated. "I understand."

"Virgil will be coming home with me," Jeff continued, laying his hand on his miserable son's shoulder. "We'll be flying back to my island in the South Pacific."

"Father…" Virgil protested.

"Your grandmother's already there," Jeff interrupted. "For both our sakes, you'd better come with me. You know that she won't accept you staying here alone."

Virgil realised that had no choice but to accept the inevitable.

_To be continued…_


	3. Brothers in Arms Scott

_Author's note: This chapter is where what became the story _Brothers in Arms_ was supposed to go, but my muse dictated that I had to write that story first and I decided that 43 pages was too long for a chapter… even for a Purupuss tale._

_So, my apologies in advance if this chapter isn't as exciting as you might expect, but I think Scott's taken charge, is dictating what goes where, and I've got no say in the matter._

**3: Brothers in Arms - Scott**

"One advantage of your having the week off with us," Jeff said as Virgil watched him ready the aeroplane, "is that you'll have the chance to meet a couple of our agents. You've heard me talk of Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward and her butler, Parker?" His son nodded and adjusted his sling so that the knot wasn't digging into his neck. "I've arranged that they will fly out to Tracy Island with us. It'll be an opportunity for you to get acquainted."

"Sounds good," Virgil agreed. "Are we picking them up somewhere?"

"No, they're meeting us here." Jeff studied his son. "Are you feeling up to the flight?" he queried. "I don't remember ever seeing you so pale. Not even last year."

"I'm fine," Virgil replied, privately wishing that he felt better.

"Well, go and sit in the plane," Jeff suggested. "I'll see if I can find our guests."

"I'll come with you."

"No," Jeff said, making Virgil realise that the suggestion hadn't been a request so much as an order. "You stay here. William Daldy said you were to rest."

Virgil nodded, not having the energy to argue. He was about to climb aboard when he saw something that made him think that maybe he had a fever and was hallucinating. "Please tell me that some idiot hasn't painted a classic Rolls Royce bright pink."

"That's Lady Penelope's car," Jeff chuckled. "And, trust me, she's no idiot."

"But a Rolls Royce!" Virgil protested. "That's sacrilege! Don't tell Alan, he'll have a fit."

"Believe me, when Alan meets Lady Penelope, he'd better hold his tongue…" Jeff grinned at Virgil. "And I would advise you to do the same. She's very proud of that car. It's been in the family for generations."

There was a discreet toot, and the Rolls Royce pulled up beside Jeff's plane. The gull wing door opened and a middle-aged man, dressed in a dark mauve uniform, with greying hair and a prominent nose, stepped out. "Mister Tracy," he said gravely.

"Parker," Jeff acknowledged.

"Madam." Parker extended his hand towards the Rolls Royce and had it accepted by a hand so delicate that it seems as fragile as a butterfly's wing.

"Thank you, Parker." A shapely leg, almost immediately followed by its twin, emerged from the car's interior. Expensive shoes made not so much contact with the tarmac, as alighted on it. Then a slim, blonde woman, about Virgil's age, unfurled herself from the seat and, with immeasurable grace, stood. "Mr Tracy," she said warmly, extending her hand in greeting. "How simply delightful to see you again."

"The feeling's mutual, Lady Penelope," Jeff replied. He took her hand. "I'm never sure what the correct greeting should be," he admitted. "Do you kiss the hand of a titled lady or shake it?" Lady Penelope laughed and to Virgil it sounded like the music that he would expect to hear from silver bells. "This is one of my sons: Virgil. I'm afraid he's been banished from work because of ill health."

"Oh, dear me," Lady Penelope said. "Nothing too serious I hope?" She didn't offer her hand and Virgil didn't extend his.

"Nothing contagious, fortunately. He's got an infected arm," Jeff explained. "He's not usually as pale as this."

"Then we shouldn't keep poor Virgil standing out here," Lady Penelope announced. "Is this the delightful plane we will be travelling in?" Virgil noticed that Parker looked less than enamoured with the craft when Jeff confirmed the hypothesis. "If we have time and if you gentlemen will excuse me, I wish to, ah, make a phone call while Parker loads our luggage."

"Plenty of time, Lady Penelope," Jeff smiled. As Parker opened the boot of the Rolls Royce and reached inside for the bags and her Ladyship glided across the tarmac to the terminal; Jeff turned to his son. "Virgil…"

"Mmmn."

"You're staring."

"Mmmn? Huh? Oh, sorry." Virgil's face found a little colour as he shot another look at the vision of loveliness that had just left them. "If I didn't have a fever before, I do now."

Jeff chuckled and gave the departing figure an appreciative glance of his own. "She is a knockout, isn't she? But I'll warn you, treat her wrong and that's precisely what she will do to you. Don't underestimate that lady; she's deadly."

Parker emerged from the Rolls Royce's boot with an armload of bags. "What should H-I do with these, Mister Tracy?"

"Let me help you, Parker," Virgil offered, extending his good hand.

…Which was held back by his father. "You are supposed to be resting, Virgil. Go wait in the plane. I'll help Parker."

"There h-is no need," Parker said primly in his exaggerated vowels. "H-I can manhage kwite well, thank ewe."

Virgil, feeling uncomfortable at the idea of someone working while he relaxed, tried to concentrate on a music magazine and was glad when Lady Penelope boarded and took a seat. He put the publication away and stood. "Mind if I join you?"

"I should be delighted," Lady Penelope extended her graceful hand to the seat across from her. "If we are going to be working together, so to speak, this will be an opportunity to get to know each other better."

"That's what I thought."

"The accepted opening gambits in conversations between strangers," her Ladyship began, her eyes twinkling, "is to ask after each other's health in a minor fashion, and then to discuss the weather. But, as I do hope that we shall move on beyond strangers and become friends, and while it is not strictly the done thing to pry, perhaps, in this case, you would be willing to extinguish my burning curiosity." She indicated Virgil's sling. "That is if you do not object?"

"No, I don't mind," Virgil admitted. "But I'm afraid that I can't lay claim to being injured while doing something dramatically exciting like saving a damsel in distress. I was skiing with a couple of friends yesterday and managed to impale myself on a piece of wood when we were packing up. As Father said, it's become infected."

"Dear me. It must be terribly painful for you."

"Not as bad as knowing that I've got to have sick leave from work when this is only my second week of employment."

Lady Penelope nodded her understanding, her blonde hair swaying about her ears.

Jeff Tracy bounded into the aeroplane. "Everyone comfortable?" he asked.

"Perfectly," Lady Penelope responded.

"Parker?"

A voice came from the rear of the plane. "Thank ewe, Mister Tracy. H-I h-am kwite comfortable."

Jeff looked at his son but didn't say anything, and Virgil gave him a nod. Satisfied, Jeff took his place in the cockpit of the plane.

Having been brought up in a relatively egalitarian society, Virgil wasn't sure that he was at ease with what appeared to be a hangover from feudal days. "Wouldn't Parker be more comfortable up here? The view's better."

"Parker, alas, is not comfortable flying in anything not big enough to accommodate FAB1."

Virgil frowned. "FAB1?"

"My Rolls Royce."

"Ah," Virgil replied. "Interesting colour," he added thinking of several shades that he thought would have been more becoming to such a valuable machine.

"Oh, yes," Lady Penelope replied. "I do so enjoy doing the unexpected. It keeps one's opponents on their toes."

Virgil still couldn't imagine Lady Penelope having any 'opponents', despite what his father had told him about her, so he reverted back to his original conversation. "So you think Parker's more comfortable in the back of the cabin?"

"Oh my, yes. He prefers not to be able to see the wings. I do believe he has a morbid fear that they will fall off through misadventure."

Virgil chuckled. "Don't let Father hear you say that. He'd be really hurt."

"I, myself, am taking flying lessons," Lady Penelope admitted. "And I understand that you are an experienced pilot, dear boy."

"I've clocked up a few hours, but if you want a few pointers from a master pilot then you couldn't go any better than to get Father to give you a few lessons. He taught me," Virgil added with obvious pride, "and my brothers. But if you want to see real 'Top Gun' material you want to see my oldest brother in action."

A delicate frown creased Lady Penelope's forehead. "That would be, ah, Scott?"

"That's right. You won't find a better pilot anywhere in the world. He's leaving the Air Force soon so he can concentrate on International Rescue."

"I shall look forward to meeting him."

They continued talking for the next hour until Virgil remembered their other passenger again. "Do you think Parker's feeling a little lonely back there by himself? Should I go and have a chat with him?"

"I'm sure he would appreciate your company, dear boy. Don't worry about me; I have brought along a little light reading to amuse myself." Lady Penelope opened a locker and removed a thick tome.

Virgil managed to catch the title. _'Laser Weaponry of the 21__st__ Century – 60__th__ edition'_. "Looks, er, interesting."

"I do feel that it pays to keep abreast of the latest developments," Lady Penelope stated as if she were holding the latest issue of _'Mansion and Garden'_.

"Well, if you grow tired of that, I'm sure Father wouldn't mind your joining him in the cockpit."

"Really." If Virgil had offered Lady Penelope a stroll across the aisle, she may have shown more enthusiasm, but he had seen a light appear in her eyes that made him think that the idea actually excited her.

"Want me to check?" Virgil undid his safety harness.

"Would you mind? I should be most terribly grateful. I should not like to put your dear father out."

"Not a problem." Virgil stood and was suddenly aware of a light-headed sensation. It cleared when he shook his head, so he walked the few steps to the flight deck. "How's it going?"

"We're about quarter of the way home," Jeff responded.

Home? Virgil had yet to think of that small dot in the Pacific Ocean as home. His apartment, despite the fact that he'd only stayed in it for less than a week, felt more homely. "Lady Penelope was wondering if she could join you up here. She's hoping for some pointers."

"Of course," Jeff responded, obviously pleased. "Tell her to come through."

Virgil did so and then continued his trek down to the rear of the plane. "Care for some company, Parker?"

Parker, looking a bit tense, nodded. "Thank ewe, Sir."

Virgil sank into one of the seats with more force than he'd intended and a bolt of pain ricocheted along his arm.

Parker heard the sharp intake of breath. "Are you h-awlright, Sir?" he asked gravely.

"Yeah," Virgil nodded, cradling the injured limb. "I'm fine." He tried to flex his fingers but his swollen hand resisted the movement. "Skiing injury," he joked. "I stabbed myself on a twig. Crazy, huh?"

"H-Indeed, Sir."

Virgil was beginning to think that Parker was one of these starchy butlers that you read about in books, who thought they were of a better class than their employers. "Lady Penelope's going to have a chat with Father in the flight deck so I thought I'd come and say hi."

He fancied that the butler paled slightly. "'Er Ladyship's wiv 'im?"

Virgil noticed that his companion's starchiness had disappeared. "Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Oh, lummee," Parker moaned. "She'll be 'avin' 'im doin' loop-de-loops next."

Virgil chuckled. "Not much chance of that. This plane's not built for aerobatics." Parker looked at him as if he wanted to ask for confirmation but wasn't sure that it was his place to do so. "Honest!"

Upon receiving the assurance Parker appeared to try to relax and Virgil decided help by offering some casual conversation. "All the butlers I've met have been American ones. From what I've read they seem to be totally different to the British variant."

Parker appeared to agree. "We know h-our place."

Virgil wasn't sure whether that enigmatic answer meant that butlers on both sides of the Atlantic didn't share the same set protocols or if Parker had some strange ideas of American servitude. "Have you always been a butler? I notice you were driving the car."

"Me? Nah." Parker gave a dry chuckle. "But h-I come from a long line h-of butlers."

"So, what else have you done beside butling?" Virgil asked, continuing what he considered to be a fairly safe line of questioning.

Parker gave his young companion an amused sideways glance. "Safe crackin'"

Virgil wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly. "Pardon?"

"Safe crackin'," Parker repeated. "H-I broke h-into safes. You know. Security boxes," he elucidated. "Done h-a bi' of cat burglary too. Done time courtesy of 'is Majesty."

"You…"

"H-I was a crook." Parker chortled at Virgil's expression. "That's why 'er Ladyship h-employed me. H-I knew both sides h-of the fence, h-as h-it were. Very 'andy h-in 'er line o' work."

Virgil's head was beginning to swim and it wasn't totally due to his illness.

"H-I was the best h-in the busyness," Parker said with evident pride, cracking his knuckles.

It was a sound that made the musician in Virgil, always careful to protect his fingers, cringe.

"But you don' need to worry h-about me, Sir," Parker reassured him. "H-I won't let the side down. I wouldn' do that to 'er Ladyship. She's bin good to me. And this h-organisation that Mister Tracy's startin' up, well, H-I can't think of h-anythin' H-I'd rather put me talents towards."

"Father knows what you are, ah, were?" Virgil asked.

"H-I h-assume so. 'Er Ladyship's not likely to keep h-it from 'im. She's good an' 'onest, she h-is. H-And becoz of 'er h-I'm goin' terstay good an' 'onest too." Then Parker lent forward. "'Scuse me askin', Mister Virgil, but h-are you feelin' all right? You're lookin' a bit Moby Dick."

Virgil had heard enough about Cockney Rhyming Slang to know that this particular phrase was an extremely roundabout way of saying 'sick'. "I'm feeling a little tired," he understated. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and rest on one of the reclining seats."

"Can H-I 'elp?" Parker undid his safety harness, anxious to assist.

"No, I'm okay," Virgil reassured him and stood. The plane appeared to spin about him and he gripped the back of his seat to stop himself from falling.

"Sir…"

Virgil favoured the butler with a shaky smile. "I'm okay," he repeated. Bemused by the way he was feeling stiff and aware of a general ache, he managed to make it the five steps or so that led him to one of the reclining seats, collapsed into it, pressed the button that allowed the seat to transform itself into a bed, and promptly fell asleep.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The gentlest of jolts, which marked the plane's landing, was enough to wake Virgil up. At first groggy, he took a moment to realise where he was and then his mind cleared enough to tell him to push the button that helped raise the back of the seat. As he was assisted into a sitting position, a blanket, which someone had thoughtfully placed over him, fell onto his lap. The Pacific sun was bright through the window and he closed his eyes against the glare. He heard a cultured voice say, "Oh, dear. The landing has awakened poor Virgil," before he fell asleep again.

The next thing Virgil was aware of was a light touch on his forehead. He awoke and looked into a pair of concerned blue eyes. "Scott?"

Scott smiled. "Hi. How're you feeling?"

Virgil struggled to sit up straight. "I'm okay."

"Okay enough to walk?"

"Yes." Ignoring the strong hand of his brother, Virgil got to his feet. He closed his eyes against the spinning walls and breathed deeply until a feeling of nausea passed. Then, making sure that he had the support of the various furnishings in the cabin, he made his shaky way to the door; Scott close by, but not helping.

When they'd reached the door to the plane, Virgil stopped.

"Nobody's out there," Scott told him. "Father's taken them up to the house."

Relieved, Virgil resumed his exit of the aeroplane.

Brains was waiting at the bottom of the steps. "H-Hello, Virgil."

Virgil scowled at his elder brother. "I thought you said nobody was here. Brains is not a nobody."

Brains beamed in delight and Scott grinned. "I think you've just made his day."

Picking his way down towards the runway, Virgil was amazed at how tiring descending five steps could be. He reached the bottom and stopped, wondering if he could find an excuse for a breather.

He found one. "What is that?!"

"That," Scott explained, "is something that Brains knocked together one lunchtime. It's a hoverjet."

Without releasing his grip on the handrail, Virgil looked at the 'hoverjet'. It appeared to be a flattened torpedo with a couple of seats strapped to the top.

"It's a real blast," Scott was saying. "I'll challenge you to a race along the runway when you're feeling better. In the meantime, we thought you'd like to help us with a little research and development."

Virgil's engineering mind, despite his lethargy, was piqued. "Doing what?"

"They're designed to aid in transportation. This one's got the additional seat attached to the rear for carrying persons who, shall we say, aren't feeling one hundred percent fit."

Virgil wasn't going to admit that at the moment he was feeling about fifty percent fit and sliding. "You want me to sit on that thing?"

Scott gave an enthusiastic nod. "Yep."

"No way. I'll walk."

Brains looked alarmed, but Scott appeared unperturbed. "Fine. Do you think you can make it up the hill to the house alone?" He indicted the side of the volcanic cone, which, to Virgil in his fevered state, looked as traversable as the north face of the Eiger. "Brains and I want to do some R&D on the hoverjet."

Virgil looked back to the hoverjet. "You said you wanted help with that."

Scott gave him an earnest look. "We would appreciate your advice. We want to know how comfortable it is for passengers."

Virgil nodded. "Okay."

"Great!" Scott said with enthusiasm. "Sit on the back, strap yourself in, and I'll be with you in the moment. I've got something I want to discuss with Brains." He drew the little scientist aside.

"H-He should be in a wh-wheelchair," Brains protested.

Scott gave a grim smile. "I would have thought you would have learnt by now, Brains, that we Tracys are a proud and stubborn lot. There's no way any of us could convince Virgil that he needs to use a wheelchair short of chopping off his legs."

Brains gestured over to where Virgil was attempting to buckle himself in. "H-He can't even d-do that!"

"Give him a moment."

Virgil's right hand, swollen and bandaged in his sling, was useless. His 'good' left one seemed nearly as bad, somehow appearing to have disconnected itself from his thought processes. He tried to pull the strap over his body, but the clasp weighed a ton and at the last moment slipped from his fingers. He let his arm flop after it. "Scott…"

Scott jogged over to his brother's side. "Want a hand?"

Defeated, Virgil could do nothing but nod.

Chattering away cheerfully as he ensured the harness was done up tight, Scott explained about the various attributes of this particular piece of International Rescue's arsenal. "We think it can go anywhere, over any surface. Rocky terrain, water, ditches, anything! We're going to put one into Thunderbird One and a couple into Thunderbird Two. Just you wait and see how useful they'll be…"

"Scott."

Scott stopped what he was doing. "What?"

"I have a headache."

"Okay." For the first time Scott allowed sympathy to cloud his voice as he pulled the harness tight, before he slipped onto the driver's seat, flipped Brains a wave, and gunned the almost silent engine.

The ride was smooth and disconcerting. The waves of nausea that caused Virgil to close his eyes could equally have been caused by the unnatural movement caused by the passing of the surrounding landscape, or his fever.

Virgil was glad when they reached the villa.

He was equally as pleased when, without asking for permission, Scott grabbed him about the waist and assisted him to walk to his bedroom.

Tired, stiff and sore, Virgil fell onto the bed and was instantly asleep.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

When he awoke he was feeling immeasurably better. He looked around the room that was technically his, but as yet had none of his personality stamped on it. The walls were bare and full of holes, awaiting the installation of various electrical devices. The floor likewise had no covering. The only furnishings were the bed, a chair, which wasn't his but had been pulled up close to the bed, and his desk.

…Which was occupied.

"What are you doing here?" Virgil croaked.

Scott looked up and smiled in delight. "Getting some work done on the cabin design for Thunderbird One. Father tells me you've seen part of the fuselage go through the factory already. How're you feeling?"

"I didn't mean here in my room. I meant on the island."

"Oh!" Scott gave a dismissive wave. "I've given the Air Force its marching orders. I am now a fulltime employee of International Rescue."

"You didn't tell me you were planning on leaving so soon," Virgil accused.

Scott shrugged. "It all kinda happened in a hurry at the end," he admitted. "The brass decided I didn't have to hang about so I got out of there."

"But you loved the Air Force," Virgil protested. "It's been your dream job all your life."

"Until Father told us about his great plan," Scott corrected. "That's been my dream from day one."

Virgil's recollection of 'day one' was that, of the five Tracy boys, Scott had been the most vehemently opposed to the idea of International Rescue. There was more to this story than had been told, but there would be plenty of time to discover the truth later. He said nothing and Scott changed the subject. "Everyone's been asking about you… And asking what I've been doing to myself." He winked "Do you need anything?"

Virgil hesitated. "I'm hungry," he said.

Scott's grin, which had vanished when they were talking about the Air Force, reappeared with a vengeance. "Feel like anything in particular?"

"So long as Grandma cooked it, I don't care."

"Right!" Scott leapt to his feet. "Back soon."

He was good as his word, but empty handed, arriving just as Virgil exited the en suite. "Grandma's getting your tray ready. Let me plump this up." He shifted Virgil's pillows so that Virgil could lean against them. "How's that?"

"Better, thanks."

The door slid open again and Grandma Tracy bustled in. "How are you feeling, Virgil dear?"

"All the better for seeing you, Grandma." Virgil's eyes twinkled. "And that tray you're holding. I feel like I haven't eaten in days."

"That's because you haven't," Grandma informed him. "There's chicken soup to start…"

But Virgil had stopped listening after her first sentence. "What?! How long have I been asleep?"

"Coupla days," Scott informed him. "It's Wednesday."

"Wednesday!"

"Wednesday," Scott repeated. "You wouldn't wake up enough to let us spoon some gruel into you. You didn't even stir when we put the IV in and Brains took some blood for testing."

Virgil looked down and discovered a small plaster on the crook of his elbow and another lower down his arm. "That must have been when I dreamt that I was being attacked by midget vampires."

Scott laughed. "He let me insert the IV," he boasted.

Virgil examined the lower adhesive bandage. "I suppose I look like a pin cushion under here?"

"No way! I got it right first time."

Virgil wasn't surprised.

"Are you all right now, Dear?" Grandma asked.

"Fine, Grandma," Virgil replied, picking up his soup spoon and dipping it with relish into the bowl.

"Oh, dear. I've forgotten the bread rolls. I'll be back soon." Grandma bustled out of the room.

"Where's Father?" Virgil asked.

"He's taken the yacht out and is showing Lady P. and Parker the island from the ocean."

"Lady Penelope!" Virgil dropped his spoon onto his tray. "I'd forgotten about her! I've been out cold while we've had visitors!"

"Don't worry," Scott smirked. "I've been keeping her entertained."

Virgil reclaimed the spoon. "I'll bet," he said darkly. "Don't forget I saw her first."

"And flaked out in front of her. Always guaranteed to create a good impression."

"I was trying to get her sympathy."

"You got it. She told me she felt very sorry for you when we were up at the lookout together… alone... Just the two of us."

Virgil glared at his soup.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The following morning, (he still couldn't quite believe that it was Thursday), after enduring his grandmother's insistence on him having breakfast in bed, Virgil got up. Now that he'd discarded the sling and most of the swelling of his hand had gone down he wished he had a keyboard to practise on. Frustratingly, the new piano was still safely housed in a carton in a storeroom somewhere in the complex.

He checked his phone messages and discovered he had three, all from Bruce, all enquiring after his health and giving him a humorous précis of the day's events at ACE. The knowledge that he had one friend at work gave him a warm feeling and Virgil did a quick calculation. It was too early to phone through a reply so instead he checked his outgoing message. A familiar voice recited:

"_Virgil T._

_Has a fever_

_If you've a message_

_You'd better leave 'er."_

Grumbling about Gordon and brothers who refused to leave him alone, Virgil changed it back to his original, but more boring, message.

That task over he decided that after days of confinement he needed to stretch his legs. He escaped the house and began a slow trek up the hill to the area they'd dubbed 'The Lookout' on an earlier visit. When he got to the vantage point he was surprised to discover that he was not alone.

"What are you doing here?" He sat on the log next to his brother.

"You asked me that yesterday," Scott replied. "How's the hand?"

Virgil flexed his fingers. "Nearly good as new."

Scott grinned, held out his own hands and wriggled his fingers. "I haven't had any problems at all." Then he turned serious. "We haven't really had the chance to talk about last year, have we?"

"No. Either I was at school or you were doing something with the Air Force."

Scott shifted position so he was facing his brother. "Read my mind."

"Read your mind?"

"Yes," Scott nodded. "Give it a try. Read my mind."

Virgil chuckled. "You're wondering what Grandma's making for lunch."

Scott gave an abashed grin. "I'm predictable, aren't I?"

"When it comes to food. Yes."

"Okay. I'm not going to think about food. I've got something else fixed in my mind. See if you can tell me what it is."

Virgil sighed. "This is silly, Scott. I can't read your mind. I never could."

"Is it silly? Everyone tells me that you knew when I crashed that plane."

Virgil felt a cold shiver go down his spine. "Yes… I did."

"And you knew I'd been rescued before anyone at base did."

Virgil nodded.

"And you knew I'd hurt my arm."

"The doctors explained that one. I had an infection in _my_ arm. But, between you and me, Scott: that and this," Virgil laid his hand gently over his current bandage, "feel totally different! Don't ask me to explain what I felt last year, but not once did I feel that my arm was on fire. It hurt, but not like this."

"More like you'd broken it?"

"Well, kinda. The pain was only in the one spot radiating out, not in an indefinable area."

"Remember when I first saw you in hospital?"

Virgil cast his mind back. "Yes."

"And you'd done all those drawings?"

There was that cold shiver again. "Yes."

"When everyone else had left I wanted to ask you something, but you fell asleep."

"You did ask me something," Virgil recollected. "You asked me if I believed we had a telepathic link."

"Yes, that's right. You gave me an answer, but I wasn't sure if you were _compos-mentis_ or were a bit dozy."

"I was awake then," Virgil said. "It's what you said next I'm not sure about. I thought you said that you…"

He was surprised when his brother jumped to his feet and strode over until he was standing on the very edge of the lookout. "It's great up here. You can see for miles. We're high enough up above the ocean that I feel like I'm flying." Scott spread his arms out wide, feeling the wind breathe past them. "This must be what it feels like to be a bird."

Bemused by the sudden change in the conversation, Virgil fell silent.

"Have you ever thought you had a friend and thought he was a good friend, but it turns out that he wasn't?"

"Uh… I…"

"Lady Penelope's a stunner, isn't she? I can't believe that she's as ruthless as Father will have us believe."

"Yes…"

"It's amazing isn't it?" Scott spread his arms again. "We're all alone out here. You'd have to fly for miles before you reached any other human beings… Though sometimes I think that's not a bad thing."

Virgil frowned at Scott's back, wishing that his brother would explain himself.

"It's good to have a friend who knows you well enough that you don't have to explain yourself."

Now thoroughly confused, Virgil could only manage a "Huh?"

Scott turned so they were facing each other again. "You were with me every step of the way, do you know that?"

"Scott… You're losing me. What are you talking about?"

"When I was in Bereznick. Somehow I thought… I could feel…" Scott struggled to find the right phrase. "I _knew_ that you were experiencing it with me. That knowledge gave me a lot of strength, Virg. It kept me going."

"How did you know that I was 'experiencing' what you were?"

Scott gave a shrug. "I just did." He looked at Virgil; eyes earnest. "I didn't feel the pain that I should've. I didn't feel the fear that I should've. I didn't feel the hopelessness that I should've…"

"Adrenaline?" Virgil suggested.

"I don't know… Maybe…" Scott reclaimed his seat. "I just wanted to say thanks for being there in spirit. It helped."

Virgil didn't know what to say. Somehow a 'you're welcome' didn't seem to fit.

"Only four more days and then back to the daily grind, huh?"

This conversation had been taking so many twists and turns that Virgil was glad to latch onto something quantifiable; even if that something was as unpalatable as work. "Daily grind is right. All I've been doing is grinding, and linishing, and cleaning, and drilling."

"You've got to start somewhere."

"Do you think I don't know that!?" Virgil snapped.

A querying eyebrow was raised. "Something wrong?"

"No."

Scott was looking out to sea again. "Brains told us that a minor infection shouldn't have crashed a guy as healthy as you. He thinks that something else must be going on."

"Brains should stick to what he's good at: designing machines," Virgil grumbled.

"Now, that's not very fair…" Scott said mildly.

Virgil had to admit to feeling guilty at slighting the little engineer who was also an excellent medical practitioner. But guilt didn't improve his temper.

"Want to talk about it?" Scott was asking.

"No."

"You can tell me. You know I won't tell anyone else."

"It's nothing."

"'Nothing' doesn't knock you out for three days. C'mon, Virg, what's the problem?"

"Read my mind," Virgil challenged.

"Okay," Scott let the sarcasm wash over him. "You'll tell me when you're ready."

"Did Parker tell you what his occupation was before he started working for Lady Penelope?"

Virgil's change of subject caught Scott as off guard as Scott's erratic train of thought had confused Virgil. "Uh… Yeah…? Crazy, huh?"

"Lady Penelope's got an old Rolls Royce. It's this horrible pink colour."

"How horrible?"

"A really bright, garish pink, like 'carnation pink'. If it had to be pink, why didn't she choose a more subtle shade like 'tea rose'?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Scott replied with the smallest trace of sarcasm. "Why don't you ask her?"

"Have you come up with a way of concealing your entrance into Thunderbird One's hangar yet?"

"No, I'm still thinking about it."

"Have you heard what Gordon's been doing to my voicemail?"

"No."

"Changing it to these stupid poems. Did Father tell you of my idea of getting into Thunderbird Two's…?"

"Virgil!" Scott said in exasperation. "Will you find one topic of conversation and stick to it!"

"Well, you were pirouetting the conversation around every which way so why shouldn't I?"

"I was what?"

"Pirouetting. Doing pirouettes? You know, spinning about? It's a dancing term."

"Where on earth did you learn a dancing term from?"

"Remember that girl I used to go out with? Susan? She was a dancer."

"Oh, yeah," Scott smirked. "She sure had you pirouetting after her."

"Not pirouetting," Virgil corrected. "Grand jeté."

"And they would be?"

"Big jumps."

"Spinning," Scott mused, a thoughtful expression on his face. "That might work…?"

"Now you're confusing me again."

"Just an idea on how to get to One's hangar. You can give me a hand to set it up before you go back to work."

Work. Virgil couldn't believe how depressing that idea was. He sagged.

"Want to talk about it?" Scott offered again.

"Do you think Father would let me give up and work full time for International Rescue like you?"

"Huh?" Scott frowned in consternation. "That doesn't sound like you. You were so keen to 'get out in the real world' and get some practical experience."

"I know…" Virgil picked at a bit of bark on the log. "I was just expecting to be getting more out of it."

"Such as?"

"Such as… I was hoping to do something more varied. I mean, I know that I can't expect to turn up at ACE, riding my diploma, and expect to be given all the interesting technical jobs. I knew I was going to start at the bottom, but I wasn't expecting to find myself doing nothing but linishing, grinding, and drilling."

"And cleaning."

"And cleaning," Virgil confirmed.

"You've only been there a week."

"It's not only that… No one seems to like me very much," Virgil admitted and Scott raised an eyebrow. "No, that's not strictly true. There is one guy who seems to want to be my friend."

"At the risk of repeating myself," Scott began, "you've only been there one week."

"Okay, Scott. Tell me if I'm overreacting." Virgil turned to face his brother. "But you can't tell Father any of this. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I've got a supervisor who's got it in for me because I 'waltzed' in and landed a job, which hadn't been advertised, and which he'd been hoping his son would get. Because of that he's forever making remarks about my abilities, or lack thereof, and he's given me nothing but the most boring jobs. And not only the boring jobs, but the mind-numbingly boring jobs! My co-workers all know that I graduated top of Denver and think that I think I'm better than I should be and by and large ignore me. Four of them decided to take me down a peg and managed to get me a final warning in the process."

"I heard about that." There was no trace of a smirk on Scott's face.

"I told the only two who have showed me any signs friendship my real name and now one of them thinks I'm working at ACE so I can spy on everyone and get him into trouble. I've only managed to work one week and I'm already on sick leave. They're all going to think that I can't hack it. And…" Virgil finished with finality, "I hate pretending to be someone I'm not. I'm actually proud of being Jeff Tracy's son!"

Scott sat in quiet reflection of his brother's speech.

"Am I overreacting?"

Scott sighed as he thought. "Do you really want to leave ACE? Forget all the personality problems. It's only what, eight, nine hours out of a twenty four hour day for one year."

"It's not though," Virgil revealed. "I come home at night and my nerves are so on edge that I can't even practice the piano properly. I can't sleep I'm so on edge. And then, when I thought I finally had the chance to relax last weekend, like an idiot I go and spill the beans."

"Why did you do that?"

"We were talking, nothing serious, and then they started talking about us."

The eyebrow went skywards again. "Us?"

"Yes. Us! At first it was funny hearing these two guys speculate on what the five sons of Jeff Tracy were like. I was some drugged up, talentless, artist hippy. John's made it into the space programme only because of Father's influence…"

Scott pursed his lips. "He wouldn't like that."

"They even had Alan as a ballerina."

Scott couldn't help but laugh at the image. "A ballerina? Alan?! Doing pirouettes and grand… things, I suppose."

Virgil managed a smile. "They were being silly at that point. They know he's ripping up the tracks."

Scott gave him a sideways look. "What did they say about me?"

"Uh… They were talking about when you got shot down in Bereznick. You know how widely publicised that was," Virgil said, not wishing to go into more detail. "Then they started on Father," he added quickly. "They were saying that he's some kind of control freak and that we're all under his thumb."

Scott gave a lopsided grin. "Aren't we?"

"Then they started on Ma."

The grin disappeared. "Saying what?"

"Stupid things."

"Virgil," Scott growled. "What were they saying?"

"That… When she died… She was leaving…"

"Leaving?" Scott frowned at his brother. Then the frown deepened. "Leaving what? Who?"

"Us… They said she was leaving Father to be with another man."

"What!?" Scott gasped. "That's impossible. That's ridiculous. That's crazy!"

"You don't have to convince me!" Virgil protested. "I know! I remember…"

"And that's when you told them who you really are?"

"No… It was really only one of the guys spouting off about us and he'd had too much to drink, so I told myself to let it go. It would be forgotten in the morning."

"But you didn't let it go?" Scott noted. "Clearly they didn't either."

Virgil shook his head. "No. They… No, I should say 'he', wouldn't shut up about Ma. He claimed that… that…" He lapsed into a miserable silence.

"Virgil…" Scott growled. "What lies did he tell about our mother?"

"That… Whenever Father was away in space… It was laughable really. He wasn't up there often enough."

"Virgil," Scott's growl had darkened to a point where he reminded Virgil of their father at his angriest. "What did this guy say? Tell me so that I know what his crime is when I beat his brains out."

Virgil hesitated a moment, trying to convince himself that his brother wasn't serious. "That you are the only one of us who is Jefferson Tracy's son."

"What!"

"That was when I got mad and told him he didn't know what he was talking about."

"Why didn't you hit him? I would've."

"Don't worry. I gave that idea serious consideration."

Scott sat back and blew out a lungful of air as if he was trying to expel the very notion that their mother had been unfaithful. "Jerk."

"True."

"And you're friends with this guy?"

"Not now. He hasn't spoken to me since he found out I could get him kicked out of work."

"And the other guy?"

"Bruce? He's okay. He thinks L… the other guy's a jerk too."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Because I thought you were still tied up with the Air Force. I didn't want to interrupt something important."

Scott shook his head. "Friends! Just when you think you know 'em…" He shook his head again.

Virgil had a feeling that the conversation had just turned full circle. So he waited…

"Remember Brian Daniels?"

"The guy who was co-piloting when you crashed?"

"I thought we were close," Scott said. "I thought I could count on him."

"You saved his life."

Scott flapped his hand as if saving a life was nothing special. "He can't understand why I've quit the force."

"Well, you haven't told him the real reason… Have you?"

"Of course not…! But he thinks I'm running away."

Virgil looked at him. "I did warn you…"

"No!" Scott took a deep breath. "He doesn't think I'm running scared. Heck, you don't get a medal for valour for running scared."

"Then what are you supposedly 'running away' from?"

Scott shrugged. "Responsibility…? Accountability…? Those who desperately need help, like those we were flying aid to when we were shot down."

"But _you_ know you're not going to be running away from any of that. Once International Rescue is operational you'll be flying full tilt into responsibility, accountability and 'those who desperately need help'."

"Brian thinks I'm opting out for the playboy life. That I'm going to waste my life on hedonistic pursuits."

"I hate to tell you this, Scott, but that's the look we're aiming for."

"I know… I just thought that Brian knew me better than that. I told him it wasn't going to be all fun and games; that I was going to be working for Father…"

"But he doesn't believe you?"

Scott shook his head.

"How about the other guys in your flight. What do they think?"

Scott gave a bitter laugh. "Some of them wondered why I've ever wanted to risk getting shot out of the sky when I could be lazing by the pool getting waited on by beautiful maidens… Somehow I don't think they're picturing Grandma…Others agreed with Brian… Some couldn't care less… It came to a head one night. We were all off duty. We were drinking… some more than others."

Virgil waited. Whatever this revelation was going to be, it was making Scott uncomfortable.

"We were celebrating Brian's first full day back on duty… We were having a great time… Then he starts drinking too much. Well, he hadn't had anything alcoholic since before he was injured, so too much wasn't a lot…"

"What did he do?"

"Started bagging me. I was daddy's lapdog; sitting up and begging every time he snapped his fingers. I was selfish. I was arrogant. I had no loyalty…"

"Then you're right. He doesn't know you, Scott."

"…It was my fault that we got shot down."

Virgil stared at his brother. "What!"

"That's what he started saying. That I'd disobeyed orders and was behaving recklessly…"

"You!???"

"It was nonsense, of course. You know there was a full inquest. We'd done everything by the book. No one said anything against me. All I got was praise… They gave me a lousy medal for Pete's sake! A medal for saving his life!!"

"I know." Virgil placed his hand on his brother's shoulder and his touch seemed to calm Scott down a little.

"Anyway… I let him rant for a while… What's that they say?" Scott gave a wry grin. "Better out than in?"

"Something like that."

Scott took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. "Then some of the others started taking an interest. They took the view that as Brian was on the flight he must know what he was talking about. He claimed that as he wasn't well enough to attend the inquest, his side of the story hadn't been told: which was nonsense because a written statement from him had been presented… Things were starting to turn ugly…"

"How ugly?"

"Ugly enough that I thought I'd better get out of there before there was blood on floor, and going by the numbers against me, it probably would have been mine."

"You could have taken 'em."

Scott gave a chuckle. "Yeah, I could. But violence wouldn't have helped. It would only have inflamed the situation, so I left. I figured that they'd wake in the morning hung-over and with no recollection of what had happened."

"That sounds familiar… And did they?"

"No. I started getting hate messages saying things like the sooner I left the better, and that the only reason I got my medal was because of who my father was and because the Air Force thought it would make good publicity. My things were getting damaged. The medal was stolen and found in the latrine…"

"What!"

"It was okay. Whoever took it had sealed it in a plastic bag… I think it was more of a metaphorical statement than outright vandalism. I tried not to make a fuss but one of the brass found a note. I got hauled in front of Major General Munroe and was ordered to explain what was going on. What was I supposed to do? Name names?"

Virgil snorted a humourless laugh. "This sounds sooo familiar."

"I couldn't've anyway. I didn't know who was doing it, except that I was pretty sure that for all his ranting it wasn't Brian…. Munroe decided that it would be easier and less hassle all round if I were to leave quickly and quietly. So," Scott spread his hands out, encompassing the island, "here I am. Civilian Tracy."

"I'm sorry it ended that way, Scott. I know the Air Force meant a lot to you."

"Yeah, so am I… But do you know what really steams me up?" Scott clenched a fist. "No one… Not one person came to my aid! No one stood up for me. No one offered to help me defend myself. No one supported me. I've helped all those guys over the years and not one of them repaid me in kind."

"Does Father know?"

Scott shook his head. "I haven't told him and Munroe said he wouldn't."

"You were lucky in that respect." Virgil couldn't keep the sourness out of his voice.

"Yeah. Father told me he got a tongue lashing from Grandma over what he said to you. I think he's a bit gun-shy about sticking his nose into our lives at the moment."

They sat in silence for a while, looking out to sea and reflecting on their lives.

"Do you know what I think?" Virgil asked. "I think we've both got a lot of pent up aggression that needs to be released in a controlled manner."

Scott gave him a sideways look. "And what do you have in mind?"

"A little light sparring."

"I think you've forgotten something." Scott pointed at Virgil's bandaged hand.

Virgil laughed. "Do you think this is going to stop me? I've always said I could beat you one handed. Now's my chance to prove it."

"Yeah?" Scott scoffed. "In your dreams."

"Is that a challenge?"

Scott stood. "You bet! Bring it on, little brother!"

---F-A-B---

In the shadows of the silent digger, Jeff Tracy stood by the hole in the ground that was to become the family swimming pool… and the hidden launch bay of Thunderbird One. He was watching two figures walking side-by-side, step-by-step in perfect unison, heads close together, talking...

"Is everything all right, Jeff?"

"Hmm. Oh, sorry, Penelope. I was miles away."

She followed the line of his gaze. "Miles? Perhaps, but I believe your musings are growing closer. Forgive me for prying into family business, but I sense you're worried about Virgil."

"Not only him," Jeff admitted. "I've been worried about both of them."

Lady Penelope gave a delicate frown. Not that she knew the elder son that well, but she hadn't seen anything amiss with him. "Scott too?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but if you mention the Air Force he either turns moody or changes the subject. That is totally out of character. He's always loved the Air Force and I'm worried that he's regretting leaving it. And Virgil… I'm not only worried about his hand. I know he'd been working hard on his studies, and then last year… Did you hear about Scott's crash in Bereznick?"

"Crash?" Lady Penelope's frown deepened by a hundredth of a millimetre. "No. I was not aware that he had been involved in a crash."

Jeff gave a dry chuckle. "Jeff Tracy's family obviously isn't considered newsworthy in England. But, cutting a very long and stressful story short, Scott was running aid into Bereznick when his plane was shot down behind enemy lines. Virgil had a tougher time dealing with his brother's disappearance than any of us. And, what with that, school, and now his new job, I'm worried that he's burning out; hence the infection."

"I wish I could be of assistance."

Jeff smiled. "Thanks for the offer, Penelope, but I don't think your assistance will be necessary. I've got a suspicion that they've each assisted the other." He indicated his two sons, still deep in conversation. "I would lay money on the fact that the two of them have talked about their problems and found the solutions."

"And now they will talk to you?"

He shook his head. "Not unless the other thinks they should. I've long since resigned myself to the fact that, as far as those two are concerned, they don't come to me unless they absolutely have to."

"Come now, Jeff. I'm sure you are exaggerating."

"No, Penelope, I'm not. Scott and Virgil are close, really close. I don't think even they realised how close they are until Scott's crash last year." He smiled as she permitted herself a bemused expression. "Don't ask me to explain, you don't know us well enough yet. Some day when I decide you're not going to think that I'm losing my marbles, I'll tell you all about it."

"Now you are being most intriguing."

"Intriguing, maybe…" Jeff looked at his watch. "But not a good host. I've got to make a call. If I'm going to finance International Rescue, I'd better make sure the business keeps ticking over. Would you excuse me?"

"Of course, Jeff. I am sure I will find something to entertain me."

---F-A-B---

As Scott and Virgil picked their way past the digger, Virgil looked at it enviously. "Think he'll let me have a go at that later?"

"Possibly. But I'd like your help with my bit of camouflage first." Scott led the way up the steps and into the shell that was going to be the family's lounge. He sidestepped the holes in the floor and walked up to the gap in the wall that looked down into a cavern. "What if we were to have a fake section of wall on a central pivot point? I'll stand on a turntable, touch a button somehow, the whole section will pirouette until I'm in the hangar." He turned on his heel until his back was to the lounge. "What do you think?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"How are you planning on operating this?" Virgil asked.

Scott turned back to face him. "How about if there's a button on a light fitting?"

"Someone could accidentally press it and open the door."

"Two light fittings?" Scott suggested. "I'll stand between them and pull them together slightly. The whole unit would rotate leaving a duplicate wall panel in the lounge." He raised his hands as if he'd completed a magic trick. "Voila. Instant camouflage."

Virgil couldn't think of any obvious flaws in the system. "That sounds good to me." He grinned. "Now you've given your brain a work out, how about the rest of you?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"I haven't got my gi," Virgil admitted. "But I packed my tracksuit."

"In just under a year you'll have all your gear here, on tap," Scott grinned. "Are you getting excited?"

"I can't wait." Virgil studied the five holes on the wall where the communication portraits were to be situated. "Of course, I could always stay here and help get everything set up. We might be able to start sooner."

Scott turned to face him. "Do you really want to quit work?"

Virgil thought for a moment. "No…" He looked at Scott hopefully. "It's only a year, right?"

"Right."

"And I've only just started. I can't expect to fit in straight away."

"True."

"And when I've been there a few weeks I'll be wondering what I was worried about!"

Scott grinned. "That sounds more like the Virgil Tracy I know. You'd better tell that Virgil Tancy to crawl back to where he came from... And don't forget that if either of you need to talk you can call me at any time."

"Thanks…" Virgil straightened and threw back his shoulders decisively. "It'll get easier," he stated.

"Of course it will. Once everyone's got to know you and your supervisor realises that you're not just some hotshot textbook geek."

"Thanks!"

"You're welcome. Now go and get changed and get ready to get thrashed."

Ten minutes later found the pair of them in the gym. Like the rest of the house it still wasn't finished, but Scott had already put out some mats to cushion falls. After a warm up the pair faced off.

"Right!" Scott said, pulling the hem of his gi's jacket so it sat flat under his black belt. "Are you sure about this?"

Virgil straightened from a bow. "Are you scared I'll show you up?" He relaxed into the preparatory stance. "Ready when you are." He kicked out and had his leg parried away.

"You're a little rusty, Brother," Scott said, throwing a punch.

"I'm not that rusty that I can't handle you," Virgil replied, ducking the punch and attempting to knock Scott's legs out from under him.

"Yeah, right." Scott dodged the move and attempted a throw. He failed on his first attempt, but on his second had Virgil heading for the ground.

Reflexes instinctively getting him into position so he could land and roll with no injuries, Virgil hit the mat. But he wasn't prepared for the lightning bolt that shot up his arm. Letting out a gasp of pain he rolled onto his knees; bent double so he could shield his infected arm.

"What's wrong?" Scott was by his side, brotherly instincts to the fore. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Virgil replied through gritted teeth as the pain subsided.

"I'm sorry, Virg."

"It's not your fault."

"But your hand…"

"I didn't hit my hand; just jarred my arm when I fell. I guess I was rushing things a bit."

Scott was still looking concerned. "Do you want me to get Brains?"

Virgil shook his head. "No… The pain's going now." He flexed his fingers. "I will play the piano again." He gave his brother a wry grin. "When we get around to unpacking it."

Scott patted him on the back in sympathy. "I think that must be the shortest bout in Tracy history."

Virgil straightened and got to his feet. "Sorry, Scott. I was looking forward to it."

"Me too." Scott sighed as he stood. "Oh, well. Next time."

A delicate throat was cleared. "Excuse me, Gentlemen, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation." Scott and Virgil looked over to the door and there, clad in a gi tied with a black belt, stood Lady Penelope. "I trust you have not aggravated your injury, Virgil."

"No." Virgil massaged his hand. "It's fine."

"Your father has urgent work to attend to, so I decided to occupy myself by making use of your excellent facilities," Lady Penelope explained. "One does lose condition so quickly, especially when treated to your grandmother's excellent cooking." She eyed the mats. "Would you care for a bout, Scott? One does get rusty without practise."

"Practising what?" he asked warily. "Do you know Karate?"

"Karate, Tae-kwon-do, Jujitsu, and numerous other forms of attack and self-defence," Lady Penelope informed him. "Would you care to accept a challenge from me?"

"Uh…" Scott looked at Virgil who shrugged. "Okay… I take it that belt's not for decoration."

"No. My masters have schooled me to the level of ninth-dan."

"In which discipline?"

She gave a light laugh. "All of them."

Scott shrugged. "Okay." As she warmed up he whispered to Virgil. "This should be interesting."

Virgil looked at him gravely, but his eyes were twinkling. "Good luck. From what Father says you'll need it."

Scott laughed. "Luck has nothing to do with it. It's all down to skill."

Virgil watched as Lady Penelope did a bit of shadow fighting. "Looks like you're going to need all the skill you've got. Good luck," he repeated.

The eldest Tracy son and the lady aristocrat faced off and bowed to each other. Then their skirmish began.

As Virgil watched he realised that both opponents were evenly matched. Scott had the advantage of height and weight, but was disadvantaged by his ingrained unwillingness to strike a woman. Lady Penelope may have been shorter and lighter, but she had none of Scott's qualms about attacking her opponent. Each time one of them appeared to be getting the upper hand, the other would slip free and resume the attack.

The bout went on for half an hour. Blow versus counter-blow. Parry versus counter-parry. Neither willing to give an inch. Neither willing to concede.

Until…

With a deft move, and using his own body weight against him, Lady Penelope threw Scott onto the floor. Before he had the chance to roll away she had leapt onto his back, arm around his throat and was pulling his head backwards. His hands scrabbled uselessly at her arm.

Virgil sat forward. In this position his brother was vulnerable. The slightest shift to her weight and Lady Penelope could have broken Scott's spine. Or crushed his windpipe. Or subdued him forever in a myriad of ways.

She favoured her prisoner with a sweet smile. "Well?"

"All right," Scott croaked, and she felt his Adam's apple move under her forearm. "I concede… On two conditions."

"Two conditions?" A finely crafted eyebrow was raised. "I believe you are not in the position to bargain, dear boy. But, since you are my host, I will listen."

The Adam's apple moved again as he swallowed. "One…" The word came out as a squeak and she reduced some of the pressure against his windpipe. "You don't say a word about this to anyone." Virgil laughed and Scott managed to point at him. "That goes for you too, or else I'll bust your other hand!"

Lady Penelope smiled. "And your second condition?"

"That you don't challenge any of my brothers to a duel until I'm here to watch you thrash them."

Virgil laughed again. "Don't hold your breath waiting to see me accept her challenge. This is one brother who's learnt his lesson the easy way."

Lady Penelope released her grip. "I agree to your terms, Scott." She moved off and extended her hand to help her victim to his feet.

Keen to salvage some pride, Scott ignored the offer and stood without assistance, rubbing his throat with one hand and his back with the other. "Boy, you're good!"

"Thank you," Lady Penelope gave a benign smile. "That's why your father has hired me. And you are an excellent exponent of the art as well."

"Thanks."

"I believe that you can learn a lot about a person by the way he behaves in a conflict."

"And what did you learn about me?" Scott asked.

"That you are determined, intelligent and quick-thinking. You are brave, resolute and proud, but not too proud to acknowledge when the odds are not in your favour. You excel in almost everything that you attempt and take any failure as a personal affront. You are loyal and you expect loyalty in return. You are protective of those who need your help, but, despite words of bravado, you are unwilling to use violence unless absolutely necessary. You are also a gentleman, you are caring towards others, you regard yourself as your father's right-hand man, and have maintained an almost maternal watch over your brothers for most of their lives."

Virgil grinned. "That's you, Scott."

Scott stared at her Ladyship. "You got all that from a half hour fight?"

"Yes," Lady Penelope concurred and a mischievous twinkle appeared in her eye. "It helped that your father has told me all about his field operatives' personalities and that your grandmamma is not averse to bragging about her grandsons." She smiled. "I am glad that I have finally got the chance to know you better, Scott. I have not had the opportunity until now." She smiled at Virgil. "He was by your side all the time you were ill and would only leave when your grandmamma made him join us at mealtimes."

Virgil was surprised, yet not surprised, by this statement. "That's shameful, Scott." He tried to keep a straight face but couldn't quite subdue a smirk. "Leaving a guest to fend for herself on her first visit to our home." He shook his head disapprovingly. "You could have taken her up to the lookout or something."

Scott glared at his brother and leant closer. "Read my mind," he growled.

Lady Penelope ignored the by-play between the brothers. "I quite understand why he did it, Virgil. Family should always come first. Especially when the two of you are obviously so exceptionally close. Perhaps after dinner the pair of you will escort me up to the lookout? I would so like to experience a Pacific Ocean sunset and you can tell me more about yourselves. Now, if you will excuse me. I believe that I will wash before I partake of your Grandmother's excellent lunch."

The two men watched her glide from the gym. Scott sighed. "That's one woman I wouldn't want to mess with." He looked down at his brother. "How's your hand?"

"Fine. How's your pride?"

"Intact. What I am is hungry."

"Tell me something new."

Someone else entered the gym. "Is this where you boys are?" Jeff said. "Lunch is nearly ready."

"Great!" Scott jogged for the door. "I'll go get washed up."

Jeff smiled at his younger son. "Been getting a workout?"

Virgil gave a rueful smile. "Not really. Scott and I were going to do a little sparring, but my hand's not up to it yet. So he showed Lady Penelope a few moves."

Jeff's eyebrows went skywards. "Scott showed _Lady Penelope_ a few moves? Who won?"

Virgil had made a promise and was loyal to his brother. "It was pretty even."

Jeff laughed. "You mean she wiped the floor with him."

"She didn't wipe the floor with him," Virgil protested.

His father gave him a sideways look. "Virgil…"

"Well…" Virgil held out his arms. "Maybe a patch this big."

Jeff laughed again and patted his son on the back. "I wish you'd told me. That is something I would have loved to have seen."

Virgil chuckled. "If it's any consolation, she's agreed not to fight any of the others until Scott's present. You might want to have a quiet word in her ear and see if she'll do the same deal with you. And then you can tell me the result, since it'll probably happen while I'm at work."

They turned into the dining room.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

After lunch Scott and Virgil excused themselves and retreated to the hangar that was going to house International Rescue's transporter aeroplane. As they traced their way through the complex they enjoyed a light-hearted discussion on how their brothers would cope with International Rescue's work. Would John be as comfortable on the 'front line' as he would be alone up in Thunderbird Five? Would Gordon put whoopee cushions on recently rescued victims' seats…?

"To be honest," Scott admitted, "the only one of you guys that I have any real concerns about is Alan. Do you think he's going to be mature enough to be part of the team?"

Virgil adjusted the sling that he'd adopted to help protect his sore hand. "I would hope so. After all, that's not a slot-car set he's playing with. Driving vehicles that powerful competitively, and succeeding, is bound to make anyone grow up."

"Talking about growing up," Scott changed the subject slightly."Remember Tin-Tin?"

Virgil gave him a scathing look. "I could hardly forget her. She was practically like a sister to us."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Ummm..." Virgil thought. "Before she left for England, I think. She'd decided that Denver was too low class for her and wanted the benefits of a European education... Why?"

"We flew to London the other week on International Rescue business and took Kyrano with us so he could visit her." Scott gave a long, low, appreciative whistle. "Now she has G_rown Up_. With a capital G."

"Has she changed a little?" Virgil asked.

"A little! Trust me, she's not a little girl any more. Alan's going to be kicking himself for not keeping in touch with her. I'd wager anything you like that she's got suitors all over the world." Scott grinned. "If there wasn't such a big difference in ages between us, I think I'd make a play for her myself…"

"Cradle snatcher."

Scott ignored the comment. "…Or I would if the idea of a relationship with Tin-Tin didn't seem to be slightly incestuous. As you said, I've always thought of her as a little sister... until I saw her the other week… I think Kyrano just about went into cardiac arrest when he saw how his little girl has 'developed'."

The corridor opened up into a cavernous hole in the hillside and Virgil stopped and stared. "I can't get used to how big this place is."

They began walking again, their footsteps echoing off the mammoth walls. "Yes," Scott agreed. "It's had to believe that one plane's going to practically fill this space…"

Virgil grabbed Scott by the arm and dragged him over to a spot just inside where the hangar door was going to be carved into a cliff face. "Don't move," he instructed before turning his back and starting to pace out the length of Thunderbird Two. "One, two, three, four…"

Scott watched his brother walk away into the distance. "Byee…"

"Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three…"

Scott was grinning. "Don't forget to send a postcard when you get there."

"One hundred and eighty-three, one eighty-four, one eighty-five…"

"If you meet Doctor Livingston, give him my best."

"Two ten, two eleven, two twelve…"

"If you're not back by dinner time, we'll send out a search party."

"Two forty-eight, two forty-nine, two hundred and fifty!" Virgil stopped walking and turned so he was facing Scott and able to get some idea of his future aeroplane's length. "This thing's going to be a monster!"

"A big, green monster," Scott chuckled. "Think you'll be able to handle it?"

"With all the onboard computers, no sweat." Virgil looked at the space between him and Scott and tried to imagine the gigantic aeroplane that, so far, he'd only seen on paper and computer screen. An aircraft with a detachable pod and swept-forward wings. An aeroplane that he was going to have to learn to fly so well, that it would seem to be an extension of himself. A flying beacon of hope that would, with luck and skill, save many lives.

But for now that aeroplane was only a figment of his imagination…

_To be continued…_


	4. A Quiet Interlude

_It's happened again. This was going to be John's chapter, but he's taken control from Thunderbird Five and sent me off in another direction. I'll get back to him in chapter five._

**4: A Quiet Interlude**

Virgil sat at a table, alone in the canteen, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited for the first bell of the day to ring. He was surprised to receive a hearty slap on the back. "Hiya, stranger! How's the hand?"

Virgil smiled at Bruce as he swung into the seat opposite. "Fine now, thanks. How are you?"

"Great!" Bruce beamed back. "You're looking a darn sight better than you did last time I saw you. The old man made you go see the quack, did he?"

Virgil nodded. "I never could keep anything from him."

"The way you were looking, a blind man would have known you were sick." Bruce never lost his smile. "Just as well that you went to the doctor when you did. You would have looked even worse if you'd fallen into the crucible furnace or something."

Virgil sighed. "Do you think there's any chance that Mr Watts'll let me anywhere near the furnace or anything else more interesting than the linisher?"

"I hate to tell you this, pal, but you showed him up in front of his hero. I think you and the linisher are going to be friends for a mighty long time."

Virgil groaned. "Thanks."

Bruce beamed at him. "You're welcome. You can spend your hours of toil imagining his face when you tell him who your father is." Virgil managed a chuckle but seemed more intent on studying his coffee cup. "What's wrong?"

"Bruce," Virgil began, "I don't want to break up your friendship with Louis. I'm only here for a year and you guys will probably be working together much longer. If you don't want to associate with me then I'll understand."

"What are you talking about?" Bruce asked. "I'll spend my spare time with whoever I want to. If I choose to spend tea breaks with you and lunch with Lou or vice versa…" Butch entered the canteen, gave the two men present a threatening glare before selecting a seat at a table by the window, "…or if I decided to spend my free time with an over-grown gorilla like him, then that's my business and no one else's." He chuckled. "I'll let you know who I'll be living with permanently when the divorce comes through. Besides," he lowered his voice, "gotta stay on the good side of the boss's son." He winked.

A raucous group of men entered the canteen and headed over to a table on the far side of the room. Virgil and Louis' eyes met briefly before the latter reddened in anger and looked away. "Has he told anyone?"

"He's busting to," Bruce confided. "But he won't. He knows that he'd probably be looking for another job if he spills the beans."

Virgil sighed again. "I don't like all this secrecy."

"Hang in there," Bruce advised. "Like you said, it's only for one year. You never know, by the end of it you might love us so much that you won't want to leave." He laughed.

A young woman entered the canteen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Despite the facts that her faded navy overalls hid her curves, her blonde hair was pulled back, and her face was free of makeup, she looked like she'd be more at home modelling for one of the world's major fashion houses than in the lunchroom of an engineering plant. She gave Virgil a quiet smile as she walked past and he felt a tingle of attraction. He watched her as she sashayed over to the tables by the window, rested her hand on Butch's back and then allowed it to caress his shoulder as she sat down.

In shock Virgil turned back to Bruce who was grinning at his startled face. "Please tell me that's not Butch's wife!"

"Yep, that's Lisa," Bruce confirmed. "She's gorgeous, isn't she? None of us can work out what she sees in Butch, including him, which is why he's so protective of her."

Virgil sat back in shock. "In the space of a week I've met two dazzlingly beautiful women, and neither of them is what she seems."

"Plastic surgery?" Bruce suggested.

"That wasn't what I meant. This other woman looks as if she'd break if you touched her the wrong way, but she took my older brother on at Karate and won."

"Bit of a wimp, is he?"

Virgil laughed at the erroneous description of Scott "Hardly. As the eldest he took the first dip in the gene pool and left us the dregs. He's bigger, stronger, smarter and better looking than any of us."

"You're no ten-pound weakling." Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I think I can hear some brotherly jealously there."

Virgil shook his head. "Nah. He's a good friend as well as brother. And he's needed those broad shoulders to support us all since Ma died. Height-wise he'd be a match for Butch, but Scott'd be way out front when it comes to brains."

"But he was a hard act to follow?"

Virgil gave a non-committal shrug. "I think John had a harder time of it than I did. Not that he's in any way inferior. I'd say he's the most intellectual of the five of us."

"He spent his time in the intelligence pool, did he?" Bruce mimed a swimming stroke. "Which one did you dip into?"

Virgil laughed. "Gordon probably pushed me into the artistic one." He cast a surreptitious look back at Lisa and Butch. "How come I didn't meet her last week…? I mean the week before? Butch had no problem in introducing himself to me."

"She was on an advanced welding course."

Virgil looked at his friend over the top of his mug. "Welding?"

"Yep. The company's bought a new type of robotic welder and now Lisa Crump is our resident expert."

Virgil shook his head. "I'd say what a waste, but it's her life and so long as she's happy, who are we to judge?"

Bruce grinned. "As Confucius said." He looked at his watch. "Five minutes and then it's noses to the grindstone." He gave a mock sigh. "Some people have got the right idea. Work one week and then have the next week off. That's the kind of timetable I could live with. Must be one of the perks of having a dad who's so important to the company…"

"Yeah?" Surprised at the intrusion into their conversation, they both looked up into the face of Burt; one of the four men who'd been behind the initiation prank that had earned Virgil the final warning. "Who's ya dad then, Veggie?"

"Uh…" Burt wasn't one of Virgil's favourite colleagues and he had no intention of letting him in on the secret, but a suitable response evaded him.

Bruce came to the rescue. "Don't you know, Burt?"

"No. Who?"

Bruce beckoned him closer. "It's a secret." He indicated Virgil. "Who does he look like to you?"

Burt stared at Virgil. "Ah… Dunno. Who, Buzz?"

Bruce looked around to check that no one was within earshot. "You know how Tracy's been looking at purchasing an island so he can build a getaway home? Well…" As Burt nodded Bruce slid closer so he could lower his voice even further. "Virgil's father's the emperor of a group of tropical islands…"

Virgil ducked behind his coffee mug to try and conceal his smile. Jeff Tracy would probably have hated being dubbed an emperor. Fictional or otherwise…

"…and he sold one to Tracy on the proviso that Tracy gave his son a job. So here he is." Bruce sat back in satisfaction.

Burt frowned and stared at Virgil again. In reply Virgil smiled and raised his coffee mug in a salute.

Burt turned back to Bruce. "You're talking nonsense, Buzz."

Bruce gave a sardonic smile. "Am I? Don't you think it's a little odd that Virgil here started work with ACE when, as far as we knew, there wasn't even a job available?"

"Yeah…" Burt agreed. "Yeah, it was strange." He straightened, folded his arms, and stared down at Virgil. "Right then, 'Prince Veggie'…"

"Shhh!" Bruce shushed him. "It's a secret remember."

Burt leant on the table. "Okay, Buzz. Since you're such an expert on his Lordship here. What's his father's name?"

Virgil was curious about this as well.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Bruce admitted. "Just speaking the Emperor's name is punishable by torture and death…" He pulled a pen and paper out of his pocket. "But since it's you, Burt, and I know I can count on your discretion, I'll write it down." He wrote something on the paper, folded it into four, and then handed it to his colleague. "But remember that it's a secret."

"Right." Burt took the paper, unfolded and read it, stared at Virgil again, and then without another word walked over to the table where Louis and some others were seated.

Bruce watched him go. "Idiot."

Virgil leant closer to Bruce. "What was that load of…?"

"Hang on," Bruce indicated Burt's table. "I knew he'd never be able to keep it secret. Watch."

Virgil turned so he could see his workmates. Glancing around like a secret service agent, Burt was holding a whispered conversation with his friends. The he showed them Bruce's piece of paper. Louis took it, read the inscription, shook his head in exasperation and hit Burt over the head with a rolled up newspaper. The injured man looked stunned and then glared over to where Bruce and Virgil were laughing.

Bruce was still snickering as Virgil turned back to face him. "What did you write?"

Bruce wrote on another piece of paper and handed it over so Virgil was able to read _Emperor S'gnuklowths._ "It probably sounds better when you read it out loud."

Virgil burst out laughing again. "I hope you and Gordon never get together. No one would be safe." He screwed up the paper and threw it into a nearby bin. "Thanks for that. I didn't know what to say and I'm no good at lying."

"Better get yourself some bootlaces then." The bell sounded. "Time for another fun day at the coalface."

Max Watts was holding his daily briefing. His excitement of last Monday had gone, but so had a lot of his antagonism towards Virgil. "Tancy! You'll be working with Harrison today."

Virgil was delighted. Working with people like Gregory Harrison was more like what he'd envisaged before he'd started at ACE. He was even more pleased when he discovered their task. The creation of a panel out of the new material called Cahelium; destined for a company called Holliday-Wilkins Corporation. This was the birth of the aeroplane that would be known as Thunderbird Two.

His Thunderbird.

Gregory Harrison was greying and bespectacled. He also had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things to do with engineering and everything to do with ACE, and Virgil was looking forward to the day. "Where do you want me to start, Mr Harrison?"

"You start by calling me Greg, Virgil. How are you feeling this week?"

"Much better, thanks."

"Good." Greg smiled. "We've got a lot of work to do and I want your full attention. So you graduated the top of your year in Denver?"

Virgil almost felt embarrassed admitting that this was the case. "Yes, Sir. But I'm hoping to learn more here."

"That's a good school. But you're right to be willing to learning more. If you're intelligent you never stop learning. I haven't and I've worked for ACE since Jeff Tracy set it up all those years ago. I was one of the first people that he employed." Greg smiled in pride. "I remember those early years. Mr Tracy was an amazing man: starting a new business and single-handedly raising five sons at the same time… He was, and he still is, a hard worker and he earned our respect. He was always willing to listen and never thought that he knew more than anybody else." He stopped in thought. "I haven't seen those boys in years, not since Mr Tracy shifted his head office."

Virgil was listening attentively. He was proud of his father and what Jeff had achieved. One of the reasons why he didn't enjoy using the alias.

"Every so often…" Greg continued. "Remember that this was in the days when ACE was a brake press and a couple of drills in an old rundown warehouse… Mr Tracy would bring his sons to the factory. They were good kids, the lot of them; but I especially remember the middle boy. He was quite happy to sit and watch me work for hours. Fascinated by machinery he was…" the older man smiled. "I see you still are."

Virgil had almost been expecting this revelation. "I should have realised that someone would recognise me."

Greg laughed. "You've changed some, but not too much. How're your brothers?"

"Fighting fit. I'm seeing most of them this weekend. John's written a book and we're all going to the launch. They'll be pleased to hear that you're still working for Father."

"I take it that you're keeping your relationship with him secret so you don't get special treatment?"

Virgil pulled a face. "It's worked beyond my wildest dreams."

Greg nodded over to where Max Watts was giving instructions to Louis and Burt. "Some people have been giving you a hard time?"

"I can handle it."

"Anyone else know your real identity?"

"Apart from Uncle Ha…?" Virgil pulled himself up. "Mr Mickleson? I told Bruce Sanders and Louis Fleming."

Greg Harrison pursed his lips. "I'm not sure that that was a wise move, Virgil."

"Bruce has promised he won't tell anyone. He tells me that Louis is too scared to. Apparently he doesn't want the 'boss's son' to get him into trouble."

"But what does Louis say?"

"I haven't spoken to him since I told him," Virgil admitted.

"I'll talk to him," Greg promised. "I have the advantage that I've worked for ACE long enough to be unafraid to approach your father, but I'm not high enough up the food chain to be a threat to our workmates."

Virgil smiled. "Thanks, Mr Harrison."

"Greg."

"Greg," Virgil amended. "You've no idea how pleased I was when Mr Watts said I was going to be working with you. But I can't understand why he's suddenly changed his attitude towards me. I thought that after having last week off I'd be getting the dull jobs until I leave."

Greg pointed over his shoulder. "That's the reason why."

Virgil turned. Standing beside Max Watts, his entire body language reading 'submissive', was a scrawny young man. "Who's that?"

"That is Max Watts' son. George."

"He's got a job here?"

"One of the data entry team is off on paternity leave and George is his temporary replacement." Greg pursed his lips together again. "There are some situations when nepotism should not be encouraged." He sighed. "Well…! Come on, young Mr Tancy, let's see what that fancy school of yours has taught you."

It was a pleasurable morning; the first that Virgil had enjoyed since starting at ACE. He and Greg Harrison worked well together and finished the first panel for Holliday-Wilkins Corporation in good time.

Then they received the plans for the second panel. Virgil gave them the once over and did a double take. He checked the numbers again more thoroughly.

The bell for morning tea sounded.

"Time for a break, Virgil," Greg announced. "Virgil?"

"Uh, sorry, Greg. I was looking at these plans."

"Leave them," Greg advised. "Time to rest your brain."

But Virgil knew his brain wouldn't be able to rest. It kept on going over and over those numbers he'd read on the second plan. They were wrong and he knew it. He knew because he'd helped design this section of Thunderbird Two… But he couldn't tell anyone that. How could he explain the fact that he'd done design work for a shadow company…?

His cell phone rang and he found a secluded corner where he couldn't be overheard. "Johnny!"

"Hiya, Virg. Got time to talk? I was going to leave you a message and let you know that I tried your home number and got Gordon."

Virgil groaned. "I'd hoped he'd given up on changing my voicemail message. Sorry, John, but you've caught me at morning tea and I've less than ten minutes to spare."

"That's okay. I just wanted to check that you were feeling okay and up to coming on Saturday."

Virgil smiled into the phone. "Of course I'm coming! Even if they'd had to drag me along attached to my life support system I wouldn't miss your book launch!"

He could hear the introverted quiet pride in his brother's voice. "You'll probably find it boring. Book launches aren't all that exciting."

"I guarantee that I won't find it boring. I'm looking forward to it. Will there be a big crowd there?"

"Well, there's the family… my publisher… a couple of friends… The publisher's put out a press release and invited some critics, but I can't see anyone being interested in an astronomy book by an unknown author."

"Hey! Positive thinking!" Virgil cajoled. "You might be pleasantly surprised." He looked at his watch. Six minutes left. "Hey, John. You might be able to give me some advice."

"Shoot."

"I'm finally working on something interesting… Which reminds me, Greg Harrison sends his best."

"Greg Harrison…? Oh, the old guy you used to follow around everywhere."

"He's the same age as Father, John."

"Well, he seemed old when I was a kid. Dad's ageless. Anyway, what's this interesting thing you're working on?"

"H-W panel 4372."

"Your 'bird! Wow, Virgil!" there was definite enthusiasm in John's voice. "It must be starting to feel real for you. Have you done anything for 'Barrett Ltd' yet?"

"Sorry, but nothing's come through production that I've seen."

"Anyway, we're wasting time. What's this advice you want?"

Virgil frowned. "I've had a look at the plans for 4372 and they're wrong."

"Wrong?" Concern coloured John's voice. "How do you mean wrong?"

"The material's the wrong gauge. My problem is; how do I tell someone without letting on how I know it's wrong?"

"How did the plan end up incorrect? Was it something we did?"

Virgil smiled at the non-judgemental 'royal we'. John had had nothing to do with the design and specifications of Thunderbirds One, Two or Four, had minimal input on Thunderbird Three and had spent most of his time working on Thunderbird Five and the communications systems that would be the lifeline of International Rescue. "No, the specs were checked by each of us at least three times."

"So, do they pass through someone else's hands before you get your grimy ones on them?"

Virgil glanced upwards to the offices on a mezzanine floor overlooking the plant and saw movement. "Yes. They get processed into a format that ACE's computers understand so they can run the material requirements planning programme."

"So someone could have entered the data for the MRP wrong."

"I think that's probably what happened. The operator's initials are GW. He's even newer than me."

"That's new."

"He's also the Production Manager's son."

"Does ACE stand for 'Authority's Children Employed'?"

"Ha. Ha." Virgil said dryly over John's chuckle. "You're not helping, John."

"Sorry… Okay. Pretend you're some nobody. Was there anything on the plans that would make you suspicious?"

"Not on those plans," Virgil mused. "But we'd just finished panel 4371… I suppose I could be wondering why the two panels were differing gauges."

"You'd have me fooled if you tried that one, but then I'm not an engineer. Would you fool your Production Manager?"

"No. And he'd probably think I was out to get his son into trouble. And, since I'm already on a final warning, he'd probably…"

"You're what!" John exclaimed. "Final warning!? Virgil! Why?"

"Long story, and I haven't time to tell you now. Look. I'll go talk to the son and see if I can get this sorted without any fuss. I'll give you a call tonight and let you know how I get on."

"Okay, Virg. And then you can tell me the full story of how you of all people managed to do something so serious that you've nearly got the sack."

"Deal. Talk to you tonight, John."

"Later, Virg."

Virgil hung up his phone and looked at his watch again. Four minutes. He was running out of time. He jogged up the stairs to the data entry office and knocked on the door. There was no response so he pushed it open.

George Watts was seated at a desk in front of the computer. He wasn't looking submissive now. He was looking frazzled.

Virgil stepped into the room. "Hi." He extended his hand in greeting. "I'm Virgil Tancy. You're George, right?"

"Yeah." George's handshake was weak and floppy.

Seeking to break the ice, Virgil said, "I hear you're Max Watts' son."

"Yeah," George repeated. "And I hear you're the guy who popped up out of nowhere with the fancy diploma."

"Uh, yes…" Virgil replied, momentarily dumbstruck. "I guess I am."

"Dad's told me about you."

Virgil had a feeling that that information wouldn't have been complimentary. This wasn't going to be easy, especially on a restricted timetable. "Look, I'm not trying to tell you your job…" George gave him a look that said that he didn't believe him. "…But I was working on one of the Holliday-Wilkins' contracts before the break, and I happened to glance at the specs for the next contract and I noticed that the gauge is different…"

"Oh, you did, did you?"

"And I thought I'd double-check that it was right before we started after the break." Virgil gave a smile. "You know, better to make sure that everything's right now, so we don't have to redo the job?"

"You wanted to get me into trouble." George Watts was clearly on the defensive.

'_Strike one_', Virgil thought. "No. That's why I wanted to see you when no one's about. If there is a mistake no one else need know about it. Can't we just double-check? Maybe whoever entered the specs for the first plan got it wrong and you're right?"

"I entered the specs for the first plan."

'_Strike two_'. "Perhaps your finger slipped and hit the wrong number. I know how easy it is to punch the wrong computer key."

"Why are you so convinced it's wrong?!" George demanded. "Perhaps Wilkins-Holliday…"

"Holliday-Wilkins," Virgil corrected and then wished he hadn't. '_Strike three_'.

"…Wanted the panels to be differing sizes. There's nothing on the originals to say what they're for. Just a load of numbers."

Virgil could read those numbers as clearly as he could his alias on his computer printed payslip. He knew the gauge was wrong. But he couldn't tell George that.

"Besides," George continued. "What does it matter? That's what Quality Control's for!"

"If quality control find an error then that means a lot of time and materials has been wasted. And if Q.C. don't pick up the mist…"

"Look!" George sounded even more exasperated. "I've got work to do and it's coming out my ears. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone! At this rate I'll never get to my gig tonight."

Virgil's ears pricked up. "Gig? You're a musician?"

"Yeah."

"What's your instrument?"

George looked at him warily. "Acoustic guitar."

"Where are you playing?"

"Stal Palace."

"Stal Palace!" This was one of the leading clubs in town and Virgil was impressed. "They say that if you're good enough to play there you're good enough to turn professional!"

"Yeah." George shrugged.

"I play the piano myself," Virgil confided, hoping to gain the young man's trust, "but I wouldn't have a chance of performing at Stal Palace. So, have you recorded anything?"

"I'd like to."

"Why haven't you?" Virgil asked. "Maybe someone at Stal Palace will back you. Cut a demo and send it to a record company."

"I'm not allowed."

Virgil frowned. "You're not allowed?"

"No. Dad said I should find a proper job instead. So he got me into ACE, working for the great Jeff Tracy." Jeff's name was said in a voice that managed to convey sarcasm and awe.

"I've noticed that your father seems to admire him," Virgil admitted.

"Admire him!? He's legend in our house!" George exclaimed. "I should 'consider it a privilege' to work for him."

"From what I know about him," Virgil said, watching his words, "Jeff Tracy thinks it's important to be true to yourself. Surely if you explained it to him how important music is to you, Mr Watts would agree."

George shook his head. "Not my dad."

They were silent for a moment and Virgil wondered what his father's reaction would have been if he'd chosen a more artistic career. He decided that Jeff would probably have been disappointed, but supportive. "Well, one good thing about working; while you're here you'll be able to save up enough money to be able to finance your own demo recording. I'm sure that once you've got a letter of acceptance from a recording company then your father will let you…"

"I wouldn't count on that, Mr Tancy."

Virgil's stomach fell to the ground floor below as he turned. "Mr Watts."

Clearly livid, Watts looked at his watch. "Ten-oh-five a.m. Taking an extended morning tea break, are we, Mr Tancy? Isn't one week off enough?"

"I-I didn't hear the bell go," Virgil admitted.

"No? You have a habit of doing that. Are you deaf? Or were you too busy corrupting the mind of an honest, hardworking young man who knows that a musician is not a valid career choice."

"No…"

"Do you know what the penalty is for misuse of company time, Mr Tancy?" Max Watts gave a mirthless smile and Virgil had the impression that he was only just managing to keep his temper. "Have you forgotten that you are on a final warning?"

Virgil hadn't forgotten. He wondered what his father's reaction would be when he found out that his son had been dismissed from his job after only two weeks. He wondered if Jeff would trust him to work for International Rescue. He wondered if International Rescue would continue without him and what his brothers would feel towards him if it didn't… Or if it did. He wondered if he should quit now and try to find employment elsewhere. Even living as a penniless artist had got to be better than the humiliation he was going to go through, and the pain he was going to cause his family.

"What's going on here?"

Watts turned to face the newcomer. "Mr Tancy is stopping George from getting on with his work, Greg. I'm deciding on an appropriate punishment."

Virgil looked at Greg plaintively. "I didn't hear the bell. We were just talking."

For the first time since his father had arrived, George spoke up. "He was clarifying the specs of his next job."

Greg stared at Virgil. Then he nodded. "That's right, Max. I asked Virgil to double-check before we started. I expected him to come up here after morning tea. It wasn't until I noticed that he wasn't in the canteen that I realised that he'd decided to work through his break." Virgil gave him a look of gratitude; thanking his lucky stars for the reprieve.

Watts seemed disappointed. He'd clearly been hoping that this was the excuse needed to get rid of one problem and move his son onto the factory floor. He lifted his chin. "Well… Don't take all day over it! See me once you've finished the job, Greg."

"Will do, Max." He watched the disgruntled Production Manager leave the office and then Greg Harrison turned back to the two young men. "Right," he said gruffly. "I've never lied to management before and at my time of life I didn't think I ever would. Now, will one of you please explain to me just what is going on?"

"Virgil thought there was something wrong with the Holliday-Wilkins unit you're going to be working on," George admitted. "He didn't want to get me into trouble so he came up here while everyone was a morning tea."

Greg looked at Virgil. "Is this true?" Virgil nodded and he gave a sigh of exasperation. "You're as bad as your father. He was forever helping someone without considering the consequences to himself." He shook his head. "Right, young Mr Watts, lets have a look at those original plans." He brought up ACE's version on the computer and compared them with the originals. There was silence as he looked between one set of plans and the other. Then he turned slowly to face Virgil. "The gauge is wrong."

"Yes… Ah, that is, I thought it might be."

"How did you know?"

"Ah… it was different from the first panel?" Virgil offered. "I… I thought there might have been a mistake in the data entry… It was a hunch."

Greg stared at him and then turned back to a chastened George. "No harm done, Lad. Fix it up and we'll start manufacture… Come on, Virgil."

"Yes, Sir." Virgil followed the older man back down the steps to the factory floor. But once they got there, instead of making their way back to their workstation, Greg stopped. He turned to Virgil.

"Next time you have a 'hunch' see a supervisor, okay," he growled. "There are procedures in place for eventualities such as this."

Virgil nodded, his eyes downcast. "Yes, Sir." He forced himself to look up at his superior. "Thank you."

Greg stared at him for a moment, then he chuckled. "Come on, young fella. We've got work to do and we won't say any more about what's happened."

Virgil managed a smile.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The Stal Palace billed itself as being a bit more exclusive than some clubs and Virgil managed to gain entry by dropping his father's name. He bought himself a drink and found a table close to the stage so he could get an uninterrupted view of George Watts.

The young man, when introduced, strode onto the stage with a confidence that had been lacking at ACE. He sat on the seat provided and began to play.

As the first notes wafted out over the audience Virgil leant forward. George had talent: real talent. And it was clear that he belonged there; up on stage with an audience. Not trapped away inside a noisy factory with his talents atrophying inside him.

After the first bracket, Virgil was on his feet nearly as quickly as the musician. "George!"

George looked about when he heard his name. "Virgil?"

Virgil indicated his table. "Have you got time for me to buy you a drink to celebrate?"

George hesitated. "Give me a moment to get rid of 'Gloria'," he said, indicating his guitar. He was back a short time later. "What are we celebrating?" he asked, placing his order.

"Your talent," Virgil offered. "You belong up there. Not at ACE."

George shrugged. "It's a nice dream, but it'll never come true."

"Never say never," Virgil suggested. "Hang onto that dream."

"But Dad…"

"Your father wants you to be happy. And to him happiness is a secure job with a secure future. Right?"

"Right."

"And, am I right in that, for you, happiness is playing your guitar?"

"Yes!" And George's face lit up. "When I'm on stage it's like nothing else exists. It's just me, my music and Gloria." His face fell. "Performing here is the only thing that keeps me going at ACE."

"George…" Virgil began slowly. "This is none of my business, and I'm probably risking an instant dismissal, but you've got to explain how you feel to your father."

George slumped in his chair. "He won't listen to me."

"You'd never play a wrong note on your guitar, would you?"

Surprised by what he perceived to be an odd twist to the conversation, George shook his. "No. Not if I could help it."

"You practise and practise until you know the notes and then can concentrate on putting your soul into the music."

George nodded.

"It's the same philosophy with engineering. But you got one number wrong in those plans today. Wrong note and you ruin the tune this time. Wrong number and you ruin whatever it is that's going to be made. And, if that mistake isn't picked up by Q.C., that mistake could cost lives."

George sat back and took a reflective sip of his drink. "Why are you taking an interest in me? I nearly cost you your job this afternoon."

"Because you're good! Too good to be stuck in a factory. Because, in a limited way, I can understand what you're going through. I love music. I love listening to it and I love playing it. I think for a while there my father was worried that I might chose a musical career." Virgil toyed with his glass. "But I also love working with my hands. I couldn't live doing a 'sedentary' job like playing the piano all day, it would send me crazy. I need…" he tried to think of an appropriate word and could only come up with, "excitement!"

"But you work in a factory," George pointed out. "Not much excitement in that."

"True," Virgil conceded. "You're right; if you don't count the excitement of seeing something you've created come to fruition… But I'm not going to be spending the rest of my life at ACE. I'm only employed for the next year and then I'm leaving for another job I've got lined up. And you know what that will mean."

"That my father will expect me to take over your job," George said.

Virgil nodded. "It's your life you're living. You've got to do what's right for you. Just remember that what I think or what your father thinks ultimately doesn't matter. You're the one who's got to live with yourself."

George looked at Virgil. "So you're saying I should tell my father that I'm not happy at ACE?"

Virgil nodded. "Yes. Maybe you'll have to offer a compromise to get him to listen…"

"Compromise?" George repeated.

"Yes. Say…" Virgil thought briefly. "Say that you'll finish your present contract, but when the guy you've replaced comes back, you'll leave for good to try a musical career… But give him a time-frame. Maybe a year? Tell him that if you can't make it in the music industry after that time, then you'll try something else."

"George," a crisp business suit laid his hand on George's shoulder. "You're on in one minute."

"Thanks, Mr Doyle," George responded. He put down his glass and got to his feet. "I've got to go, Virgil, but thanks for the chat; you've given me a lot to think about. Are you going to leave now?"

"No," Virgil settled back in his chair. "I've come to enjoy a concert…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was later that same evening after he'd been trying to sleep for about an hour, that Virgil remembered his promise to call John. Annoyed with himself for forgetting, he sent an apologetic text message saying he'd phone tomorrow and then fell into a deep sleep.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was Friday at last. The final bell of the week had sounded and Virgil was in the process of getting his gear from out of his locker when Bruce stuck his head into the room. "There's something happening out here!"

Curious, Virgil shut the locker door and followed his friend out into the factory. "What?"

"Look," Bruce shushed. "Listen!"

A couple of female members of staff hurried past. "Cheryl says he looks just like Brad Hudson."

"The movie star!? No way! That's just not possible! There can't be two that handsome."

Following at a decent distance Bruce and Virgil followed the pair who, ignoring the two men, stopped outside the door to reception. "Go on!" The first girl said. "Go on in!"

"No way!" The second protested. "I couldn't. What would I say to him?"

"You don't have to talk to him. Just see him! He's gorgeous!" Number one opened the door and pushed her friend inside, following quickly.

Bruce stared at Virgil. "What's that all about?"

Virgil grinned. "I think I know. Scott's arrived."

"Scott? Your brother?"

Virgil nodded. "We're travelling to John's book launch together. I'd arranged to meet him at home but he probably wanted to check up on me at work. Come on, I'll introduce you." He pushed open the door to reception. "Scotty!"

Scott stood and smiled a beaming smile. "Virg! How'd you know I was here?"

Virgil folded his arms and looked at his brother. "Simple. We followed the twittering females."

"Oh… yeah." Scott had the air of someone who was aware of the effect he had on the opposite sex, and was simultaneously embarrassed and flattered by it.

"This is my friend, Bruce," Virgil introduced. "Bruce. This is my big brother."

Bruce grinned as the two men shook hands. "I've heard lots about you."

Scott was cool in his reply. "I've heard some about you… and ski trips."

"Ah…" Bruce looked suitably bashful. "Yeah…"

"Let it go, Scott," Virgil advised. "You don't have to worry about Bruce."

Scott gave Bruce a look that read, _he'd better be right._

"What are you doing here?" Virgil asked. "We arranged that you'd meet at my place."

"I wanted to check out where you worked."

Virgil turned to Bruce. "Told you."

Scott ignored the sarcasm. "Are you ready, Virg?"

Virgil indicated his overalls. "Do I look ready? Give me a moment to dump these and I'll meet you outside." The door opened and a figure stepped through. "Have a good weekend, George."

"Thanks, Virgil. Wish me luck."

"You're going to do it this weekend?"

"Yeah, tonight. Give him a couple of days to get over it."

"Well, I hope it goes well for you… and that I'll have a job to come back to on Monday."

George gave a nervous laugh. "I'll keep your name out of it." The two men left reception, each going their separate ways.

Scott looked at Bruce who shrugged.

"So…" Bruce began, trying to think of a safe topic of conversation. "You and Virgil are flying to this thing?"

"Yes, the book launch is tonight," Scott looked at his watch. "Virgil had better hurry up. The time-zone's in our favour, but we don't want to be late."

"Are you taking Virgil's plane?"

"That crate?" Scott barked out a laugh. "No chance. I'll be flying my bird."

Butch entered the reception and handed something over the counter. Then he glowered at Scott who wondered what he'd done to cause offence.

"This is Virgil's brother, Butch," Bruce offered. "We're just waiting for him."

Butch, rather obviously, sized Scott up before retreating to the factory. When he returned he was holding Lisa protectively by the arm, keeping his much tattooed body between his wife and the man he perceived to be a threat.

In contrast Lisa treated Scott to an amiable smile. "Have a good weekend, Bruce."

"You too, Lisa. See ya, Butch."

Butch grunted and guided Lisa out the door.

Virgil re-entered the reception, minus his overalls and plus a bag. "Okay, Scott. Let's go. Have a good weekend, Bruce."

"You too, Virgil."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

They pulled up at the venue for the reception and Virgil checked his hair again in the mirror.

"Why are you preening yourself?" Scott demanded. "There's only going to be boring astronomy types in there. Nothing like that Lisa woman." He gave a low whistle. "Now she was something!"

"_She_ was married." Virgil grinned as the realisation sunk home in Scott's mind. "Butch is her husband."

"What!? Why?"

"You tell me and we'll both know. But they seem to be devoted to each other."

"She might be devoted, but he seemed… deranged."

Virgil laughed as he got out of the car.

Scott moved around to his side. "I suppose that I shouldn't be surprised that beautiful women should choose engineering as a career. Look at Tin-Tin." The brothers started walking towards the door. "I wonder how John's feeling," Scott mused. "Every time I've spoken to him he's seemed more and more excited over the whole thing."

"Well, he's been working on this book for years," Virgil noted. "He probably can't believe that today's finally arrived."

They entered the venue and looked around.

"I wonder if anyone else is here yet?"

They passed through another door into the hall and were promptly accosted by a blonde meteor. "Guys! You made it!"

Scott gave his brother a playful punch on the shoulder. "Of course we did, Johnny. Didya think we'd miss your special evening?"

"How're you feeling, John?" Virgil asked.

"I'll tell ya, Virg. I'm a bundle of nerves." John wrung his hands together as if to demonstrate. "What if nobody likes it?"

"Relax," Scott soothed. "It's a good book. If it can keep a flyboy like me engrossed, then the experts are gonna love it."

"I hope so." John's hands were still twisting in knots. "I've barely slept all week! And when I have managed to sleep I've dreamt that no one's turned up tonight. Or everyone's laughed at it. Or you guys have stood up on stage and told everyone that it's a load of nonsense and not to bother reading it."

"John!" Scott was understandably surprised. "You know we'd never do that. I promise that, unless you specifically ask us up there, we won't go anywhere near the stage. Tonight's your night and no one's going to upset it. If they do…" he thrust his shoulders back and chest out, "they'll have to answer to me!"

"They'll have to answer to us!" Virgil affirmed.

"Thanks, Guys." John appeared comforted by his elder brother's speech. "Want to hear something awful? There've been times when I've been kinda glad that Gordon can't make it tonight. I've been dreaming that the evening's going well and then he plays a trick, absolutely ruining everyth…"

"John…" Scott placed a hand on his stressed brother's arm. "Gordon would never do anything like that. Not when he knows how important this is to you."

John gave a sheepish grin. "I know... I know I'm being stupid, but I haven't been able rein in my imagination all week." He brightened. "And I've just been talking to Gordon. He rang up to wish me good luck. Wasn't that great? I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd forgotten."

"No chance!" Virgil exclaimed. "Like Scott said, he knows… we _all_ know how important tonight is to you. I'm sure he wishes he was able to be here to share it with you."

John nodded. "That's what he said." Someone called his name from the other side of the hall. "I've got to go. Enjoy the evening!"

"We will," Scott called after him. Then he lowered his voice. "I thought Gordon might call. I told him to when I rang him earlier today."

Virgil grinned. "So did I."

"So did I…"

Hearing the three-part chorus from behind them, the brothers turned and found themselves face-to-face with the rest of the Tracy clan. Scott chuckled. "Gordon would have loved that. Even a mile underwater can't escape being ordered about by the rest of us."

"How's John?" Jeff asked.

"Stressing."

"He'll be able to relax now that you're all here," Virgil added.

Alan was looking at the laden buffet tables. "Let me at the food. I'm starving!"

"You'll wait," his father growled and looked at his watch. "It's not due to start for another quarter hour."

"I've been on the road for hours," Alan moaned. "John won't mind…" He took a step towards the buffet.

"Alan Tracy!" Grandma scolded. "You mind your manners and wait!"

"At least let me get a drink," Alan protested. "John won't want me to collapse from dehydration."

Grandma pointed towards a hatch in the wall. "There's the kitchen. Go and see if they'll give you a glass of water. That'll help fill you up until it's time to eat."

Grumbling quietly to himself, but wisely not at a volume that would raise his grandmother's ire, Alan slouched away. He was accosted by John and received a hearty slap on the back that sent him staggering.

"Dad!" John raced across to his father. "Grandma!" He shook his father's hand enthusiastically and gave his grandmother a bear hug. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Now, John," Jeff said genially. "You know that I'd move heaven and Earth to be here. I even postponed a business meeting so I'd be sure that I could make it on time."

"You did!" John's face lit up.

"Come here, Darling, your tie is crooked." Grandma placed her grandson in front of her so she could straighten the errant garment. "There that's better."

"Do I look all right? I'm not too overdressed, am I?"

She gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek. "You look very handsome." Alan, returning with his glass of water, made retching noises and received a cuff across the back of the head for his troubles, nearly spilling his drink.

"Thanks, Grandma." John looked at his watch and his face reversed into a worried frown. "We're due to start in ten minutes and it's only my publisher and you guys here! What if no one else comes!? What'll I do? Look at all this food…"

"Don't worry, John, I'm sure Scott'll be willing to take care of the edibles." Alan received another cuff from his eldest brother.

Jeff Tracy laid his hands on his agitated son's shoulders. "John… Calm down... You said yourself that there's still ten minutes to go. Relax… Take a deep breath."

John did as he was instructed and visibly calmed. "I'm sorry." He gave a rueful smile. "If I carry on like this you won't want me to be part of the team."

"That'll never happen," Jeff responded. "You're too important and it just won't work without you." A group of bearded, bespectacled men entered the hall, looked about nervously and Jeff released his grip. "There you are. People are starting to arrive now, so you'd better go and welcome them."

"Yes," John agreed. "Thanks, Dad."

He scurried away and Alan watched him as he greeted his fellow astronomers. "He seems stressed."

"He wants tonight to be perfect," his Grandmother told him. "So be on your best behaviour, my boy! I'll be watching you."

"Why only me!?" Alan demanded. "Why not Scott and Virgil?"

"Because we know bett…," Scott began. "What are you doing, Virg?"

Virgil had his cell phone out and had dialled a number. "It suddenly dawned on me that, since we've all been on Gordon's case today, he's likely to have…" his face changed to an expression of horror. "The little…"

"Why? What's he said this time?" Scott asked.

"Never mind," Virgil grumbled. "I'm going to have to find somewhere quiet so I can change it."

"Not until we've heard it!" Alan grabbed the phone from his brother's hand.

"Alan!" Virgil hissed. "Give that back!"

"I will…" Alan pushed redial and hands-free speaker-phone.

"_Our astronomer brother's hoping to be famous._

_While Virgil's away, looking up Uranus._"

Scott laughed. "Classic!"

"Gordon should write a book of his own," Alan teased. "He could call it: _Virgil's Various Vexing Voicemails_."

"He'll be writing his own epitaph if he's not careful," Virgil growled. "I'm going outside to..."

"Hold on, Virgil." Jeff put a hand out, stopping him. "It's about to start."

During their discussion, considerably more people had arrived and the hall now appeared to be almost full. A good many of those present held microphones and/or cameras.

There wasn't much to the formal proceedings. John's publisher spoke briefly about the book, how surprised he'd been when he'd discovered that the missive by this unknown author had been proven to be eminently readable, how he'd found John to be amiable and open to suggestions, and how he'd been proud to work with the young man. John, all signs of his earlier nerves vanquished, spoke of why he'd felt the need to write this book, what and who had inspired him, and thanked his publisher and his family for their support. Then the assembled gathering were offered the opportunity to partake in the various nibbles, peruse (and purchase) copies of the tome, and ask questions of the author.

Half an hour later and most of the Tracy family had retreated to the corner of the hall to wait out the evening. John, his face beaming, sought them out. "Having fun, Guys?"

Scott, ever the master of the tactful reply, responded. "We're enjoying seeing you as the centre of attention for a change. The important question is: are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, I am!" His brothers wouldn't have thought it was possible, but John's smile grew even bigger. "Look at all these people here: and just because of my book! Isn't this amazing?"

Scott grinned. "It sure is, John. Go and enjoy your moment." Clearly in a buoyant mood, John floated away and Scott looked at his brothers. "Hands up anyone who doesn't think that most of these people, especially the press, are only here because of the Tracy name?"

No one moved.

"That's what I thought."

"This is boring," Alan complained. "Look, there's a bar a few doors down. Let's all go there!"

"No-one's going anywhere," Scott reprimanded him. "Not until everyone else has gone."

"But I'm bored!"

"This isn't about you, or us," Virgil reminded his kid brother. "This is about John. How do you think he'd feel if we snuck off?"

"He's that wrapped up in what's happening that he wouldn't even know," Alan protested. "We only need to go for half an hour. We'd be back before he noticed we'd gone."

"Alan." Scott folded his arms and glared at his brother. "Do you ever hear John complain about being bored during your car races?"

"My races aren't boring!"

Scott gave a dry laugh. "That's what you think. Grown men driving around and around in a circle; just to prove which one has the fastest car. But you never hear John complain do you?"

"Only about the noise," Virgil said.

Scott gave the comment serious consideration. "True."

"And the pollution."

"Also true."

"And the smell…"

"He said that?!" Alan stared at them open mouthed. "John thinks my races are boring!?"

"He's never said that," Scott said, "because he doesn't want to hurt your feelings. But he'd never go if you weren't competing. He does it for _you_, Kiddo. Because you're a part of this family and he wants to support _you_. He wants to see you do well and enjoy your success. Don't you want to do the same for him?"

"I guess…" Alan stared at the empty glass in his hand. "Oh, well. If I'm staying, I may as well get another beer." He stood; only to find himself pulled back onto his seat. "Virgil!"

"You've had enough."

"Who are you? My keeper?"

"Virgil's right, Alan," Scott agreed. "You're driving. And another thing. You don't want to make a fool of yourself in front of all these people and ruin John's day."

Alan folded his arms in a huff and pouted. "What do you think I am? A little kid?" He looked over to where John was talking to a group of people. His big brother's arms were spinning around as he enthusiastically explained something to a rapt audience. "That is John, isn't it? The space agency hasn't cloned him and left us this garrulous substitute, have they?"

Virgil chuckled. "I don't think I've ever seen him this communicative with strangers before. He actually seems to be enjoying himself!"

Jeff had been waylaid by what appeared to be most of the members of the fourth estate present. "Mr Tracy. Are you proud of your son?"

"Always."

"Will you be buying a copy of the book?"

"No." Jeff managed a convincing chuckle. "I'm hoping that John will give me an autographed copy as a birthday present."

"I suppose if your father's a multi-billionaire, there's not much you can buy him."

Jeff glared at the reporter and ignored the comment. "I have read John's book and I enjoyed it immensely. It's even taught me a thing or two about space, and I would recommend it to anyone."

Another journalist tried different tack. "How does it feel to know that your son has followed in your footsteps?"

"John hasn't followed in my footsteps. He became an astronaut for totally differing reasons to mine; because he wanted to learn more about the universe. He has carved out his own career based on his own skills and interests, and I admire him for it."

"But he got into the astronaut programme because of your influence?"

Jeff's features hardened still more. "No."

"There are rumours that you will be starting a new venture soon. Would you care to comment on it?"

"No. My chief concern at this precise moment is the celebration of the publication of John's book."

"Would you care to comment on the dip in Tracy Aeronautics' share price?"

Jeff had had enough. "Gentlemen, I think you are interviewing the wrong J Tracy. John is over there. Now, if you will excuse me I am going to have something to eat and enjoy this celebration of my son's work!" He escaped to the table near his family. "Piranhas," he muttered as he helped himself to a small pastry.

Grandma Tracy chose that moment to return from the ladies room. "I happened to overhear a couple of young women talking," she announced. "They were saying how fascinating 'Tracy' is, and how he's a remarkable person. Then one of them says, '_he's quite a looker too!_' Of course I assumed that they were talking about John. I'm about to proudly tell them that he's my grandson, when the other says, '_yeah, pretty good for someone his age.'_ They were talking about you, Jeff!" She huffed. "Really!"

"This is ridiculous!" Jeff snapped. "Today is nothing to do with me. I just happen to be John's father! Why can't people forget who I am?"

"Because you're famous," Alan reminded him.

"And for most of my life I've tried to keep my fame separate from my family."

"And you've generally done a good job," Virgil said.

Jeff managed a rueful smile. "Thanks, Virgil…" He visibly saddened. "It's true when they say that fame's a double-edge sword. It's got me a lot of what I have today, but it won't let me enjoy my own son's achievements…"

"Mr Tracy. I'm Stewart Artha from the S.T. Tribune. Are Tracy Aeronautics…"

Jeff scowled at the microphone that had been thrust under his nose. "I think that John has written an excellent book. I would recommend that everyone reads it. I'm proud of my son and what he's achieved. I came here tonight to celebrate his achievements. And I wish to be treated like the father of any other author!" Jeff stood. "Now! Will you excuse us?!"

Stewart Artha looked startled and took a step backwards. "Uh…Yeah…" He scurried away fiddling with the controls on his recorder.

"This is ridiculous," Jeff fumed. He looked over to where John was engaged in an intense discussion with another man and his features softened. "He deserves to be treated better than this." He sighed. "I'm going to go and sit in the car. Give me a call when it's safe to come back inside again."

"Father…" Scott protested.

Jeff shook his head. "This is John's day. Let him get the attention he deserves. I'll drive around the corner so that no one knows I'm still here." Virgil watched him leave, shoulders slumped in sadness.

Two minutes later most of the media contingent and a large proportion of the hangers-on realised that Jeff Tracy had left the building and departed as well.

John noticed the thinning of the crowd and came over to his family. He then realised that one member of the clan was absent. "Where's Dad?"

"Uh…" Everyone tried to think of a tactful reply. "He's popped outside for a bit, John," Scott said.

John frowned. "Why? Isn't he feeling well?"

"He was starting to feel a little warm," Grandma replied.

"You know how he's allergic to the press," Alan added. "He had to get away. He's sitting in the car."

"Working?"

Alan shrugged. "Probably."

John's mouth formed a silent 'oh'.

"He said we were to give him a call to come back inside when things have quietened down," Scott added. "He doesn't want to miss any more of your evening than he has to."

"You look like your enjoying yourself, John," Virgil commented. "Are you having fun?"

John favoured him with a half-smile. "I guess so." He looked around. "I suppose we'll be finishing soon. Most of the reporters have gone anyway."

"You know what it's like," Scott soothed. "They've probably rushed away to file their stories so they can make their deadlines."

"John," his publisher came rushing over to him. "There's someone here I want you to meet!" He pulled on John's arm and started to lead him away. "He's one of the most influential critics in the country and is on the judging panel of…"

The book launch wound down to a close shortly afterwards.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Monday morning at ACE and Virgil was half-way through his tea break when his cell phone rang. He apologised to Bruce and, looking at caller ID, went somewhere more private than the staff canteen. "I hope you've rung to tell me you're going to stop changing my voicemail messages."

"Virgil," Gordon sounded unusually serious. "Can you talk?"

"I'm alone." Virgil looked at his watch. "But I'm on my tea break. We've got four minutes."

"How did the book launch go?"

Somewhat surprised by the question, Virgil hesitated. "Okay, I guess. It was a little boring for the rest of us and we had to practically tie Alan down to keep him there, but John seemed pleased."

"Have you spoken to him since?"

"Not really," Virgil admitted. "We all went out to dinner to celebrate on Friday night and then I had to fly home on Saturday so I could get ready for my first aid course yesterday. Why?"

"We've been playing phone tag all weekend and I've only just managed to catch up with him. He was telling me all about it and at first he sounded quite excited. He said that more people arrived than he was expecting." Gordon paused.

"That's right." Virgil frowned. So far there'd been no hint of what could have prompted Gordon to ring in such urgency. "So, what's the problem?"

"He told me something that I can't quite believe."

Virgil's frown deepened. "What was that?"

"He said that Dad walked out on him."

"He said what!?"

"That Dad walked out during the launch. I tried to tell him that Dad wouldn't do that, but he wouldn't back down on his story. I would've have rung Scott to find out the truth, but I didn't want to take the chance that Dad might overhear. That's why I rang you. What happened, Virg?"

"Father did leave…" Virgil began.

"He did what!" Unaccustomed anger could be heard in Gordon's normally even-tempered voice. "How could…!"

"Now, hang on, Gordon," Virgil interrupted. "You haven't heard why yet. The press were pestering him and they weren't asking him questions about John or the book. They were asking him about Tracy Aeronautics. Father tried to get rid of them, but they wouldn't leave him alone. He didn't want to go; you know how he gets when one of us achieves something and I think he was looking forward to the book launch nearly as much as John had been, but he thought that if he left, then everyone would give John the attention that he deserved. Unfortunately as soon as all the reporters realised that Jeff Tracy had gone, they left themselves."

"They were there only because of Dad?"

"Yeah. Father was devastated that he had to go, but he thought he should for John's sake."

"Do you think that John realised this?"

"I don't know. You know how quiet he usually is." Virgil thought briefly. "He seemed happy enough at dinner." He looked at his watch. "I've only got half a minute left."

"Don't go! There's something else."

Virgil felt his heart sink.

"He told me that one of the papers reported that Dad refused to buy a copy of the book."

"What! You're kidding! Aren't you?"

"If I'm kidding you now, Virgil, I'll never play another prank on you," Gordon promised. "That's what John told me. So I did an Internet search before I rang you and he's right."

"They must have misquoted him. It's a typo or something. It's got to be!"

"That's what I thought, but it's really knocked John. He tried to hide it, but he had tears in his eyes when he told me."

"Come on, Gordon…"

"I swear I'm not joking. He was really upset..."

The unwanted bell calling ACE employees back to work rang. "I've got to go…" Virgil ran his hand through his hair. "What are we going to do?"

"I've still got ten minutes before I'm due back on duty so, now that I've got all the facts, I'll give John another call," Gordon offered. "Thanks for setting me straight, Virgil."

"No worries, Gordon. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"Well… There is one thing…" Gordon snapped back into prankster mode. "Go back to work so I can change your voicemail message." He laughed.

He'd hung up before Virgil could respond.

_To be continued..._


	5. A Quiet Problem John

**5: A Quiet Problem - John  
**

One evening, a little under two months into his tenure at Aeronautical Component Engineering, Virgil arrived home late. He and Bruce, along with a couple of lady friends, had gone straight from work to dinner and a movie. He'd long ago decided that since he'd be heading off to live on an island in the middle of nowhere and living a life of danger, he wasn't prepared to get seriously involved with anyone. But that didn't mean that he wasn't going to have some fun in the meantime.

He threw his jacket onto his bed and glanced at his videophone. The display informed him that he had four messages waiting and he replayed them as he fixed himself a cup of coffee.

All four messages were from John and he sounded excited.

"_Virgil! I've got some great news… What's the time there? Oh, heck. I guess you're still at work. I'll call you on your cell… No… I'd better not… Call me when you get home!"_

"_Aren't you home yet? Come on you must be there. Virgil… Can you hear me, Virgil…? Virgil… Answer the phone…! Bother… You must be out… You might be doing something important, so I won't call your mobile… You can call me!"_

This message was prefaced with laughter. _"I've just realised what Gordon's changed your message to! You're going to want to change it pretty quick… But don't do it until after you've called me back A. S. A. P!"_

"_Are you on a hot date or something? You've been gone for hours… If you don't call me within half an hour I'm ringing you on your cell phone and it'll just be too bad if you're in the middle of something interesting. So ring me when you get home. You know me, I always go to bed late and I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight anyway… I've told everyone else my wonderful news and I'm dying to tell you. So make sure you don't talk to anyone else and ring me the instant you get in the door. Even sooner!"_

Virgil smiled. That was John: always putting others before himself, even when his news was obviously important to him. It was with a sense of pleasurable anticipation that Virgil made the phone call, expecting to greet the same eager individual who'd been pestering his answer-phone. Instead he got a shock. "What's wrong?"

John looked positively morose. "I've just got off the phone from talking to the President of the World Astronomical Society. He's read my book."

Virgil felt his heart sink as he imagined the worst. The president had hated the book. He'd said that the facts were all wrong. He'd accused John of plagiarism. All these scenarios chased each other through Virgil's mind as he said: "What did the President say?"

"The Society wants me to become a member and then, after I get back from the Space Station, go on a lecture tour around the world."

Virgil frowned. This didn't sound like something to be upset about. This sounded more like an honour. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing."

"John," Virgil shook his head to try and clear all the confusing signals he'd received since he got home. "Is this what you were ringing me about all day?"

"No."

"It sounded like you had good news for me."

"I thought it was… until I got that phone call…"

Virgil waited, but John wasn't forthcoming with the news that had sent him overflowing with joy earlier in the day. "Well? What is it?"

"You know my book?"

"Of course I know it! What about it?"

The announcement was made as if someone had suggested that the best place for the manuscript was in the nearest rubbish bin. "It's been nominated for an award."

"John! That's fantastic!" Virgil enthused. "Which award?"

"The Theydon Book Awards."

To say that Virgil was stunned would have been an understatement. To win a Theydon Book Award was to achieve the highest literary prize for non-fiction work in the country. To be nominated meant that your book had received acclaim from both the general public and critics alike. "That's fantastic!" he repeated. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks." John did not sound like someone who in a short space of time had reached the pinnacle of his career.

"What's wrong?" Virgil repeated.

"Nothing."

"John," Virgil was almost becoming exasperated by his brother's lack of enthusiasm. "You were excited when you left me all those messages. I could hear it! What's changed?"

"I got that call from the World Astronomical Society."

Virgil's head was whirling. "Can we start this conversation again?" John didn't respond. "Right… You've been nominated for the Theydon, right?"

"Right."

"And that's good, right?"

"Right."

"And the World Astronomical Society wants you to join them, right?"

"Right."

"And do a worldwide lecture tour, right?"

"Right."

"And is that good too?"

"Good!" John finally showed some emotion. "It's great! It's the ultimate! It's acceptance from my peers!"

"So, what's wrong?" Virgil asked.

"Can't you see!?" John demanded. "Are you blind…? Don't you understand…? I can't do it! For the first time in my life I've achieved something that no one else in the family has achieved. People I've admired all my life want me to join them! And – I – can't – do – it!"

Virgil decided that the best plan was to adopt a supportive tone. "Look, John. I know that getting up in front of strangers and speaking isn't your forte, but you've come out of your shell a lot these last few years. Look at how well you spoke at your book launch. You surprised me… You surprised us all with how accomplished you were… I know you'll be able to do it. Once you've got a couple of lectures under your belt you'll wonder what you were worried about."

John was staring at him as if he were crazy. "That's not the point!"

Virgil frowned. "It's not? Then what's the problem?"

"International Rescue of course! You know the rule! No publicity!"

Virgil slumped back. "Oh."

"Yes. 'Oh'," John responded. "Obviously an insignificant book launch doesn't matter, but do you think for one minute I'll be allowed to travel around the world as John Tracy, astronomer?"

"I don't know," Virgil admitted. "You can only ask..."

"For once in my life I have the opportunity to get out of big brother's shadow and I'm not allowed to do it."

Virgil stared at the video image. He knew that Scott Tracy was a hard act to follow, since the eldest seemed to excel at almost anything he put his mind to. But as they'd all chosen their own course in life and each had excelled in their own right, he'd rarely felt the pressure to be as good as his brother. Clearly John had not been so lucky. "John?"

"I shouldn't have said that. You'll only tell Scott."

The accusation stung. "No, I won't. I can keep a secret."

"Then he'll read your mind and know that I said it…"

Virgil was getting used to comments about his and Scott's supposed telepathic link; even his grandmother would sometimes tease him about it. But to have it thrown back in his face like this rocked him.

"…Then he'll tell Dad," John finished, bitterness oozing out every syllable.

"John. Scott can't read my mind and I can't read his."

"Don't lie. I saw you last year. I watched you go through what he was going through."

"What he was going through, not what he was thinking! I can't…" Virgil took a deep breath. He wasn't about to go down that path. "This isn't about me and Scott. We're discussing you."

"Me? Ha." John gave a mirthless laugh. "No one cares about me. I'm not stupid. I know that all those people weren't at my book launch to see me: they were there to see Dad. They wanted to meet and interview the great Jeff Tracy, not his insignificant son. Most of them didn't know or care who I was or what I'd done."

Virgil said nothing. There was no point in denying the truth.

"Do you realise that by taking on this venture, I'm losing more than any of you?"

"Huh?" Virgil frowned. "I don't understand."

"When we start International Rescue, you'll all still be doing what you've always wanted to do. You'll still be tinkering with bits of machinery. Scott will still be flying fast planes and ordering people about. Gordon will have his own submarine to play with and will have a whole ocean to swim in."

"And Alan?"

"Alan will still be going faster than anyone else in the rocket. And Alan and Gordon can satisfy their competitive urges by competing against each other. While I'll be stuck up above the Earth for months at a time: forgotten by everyone."

"We could never forget you, John."

"You will. Just wait, you will! I'll be stuck, alone, while you'll be relaxing, enjoying the sun, popping off to the mainland for the weekend. I won't be able to 'pop off' anywhere. I won't be able to go anywhere until someone comes and gets me… if they remember to."

"But communications are your forte! None of us could have come up with the system for Thunderbird Five that you have: not even Brains! And I thought you were excited by the idea of being above the atmosphere and having a clear view of the stars."

"A hobby! My true calling is being relegated back to the designation of hobby, just as it was when I was a kid. My job will be listening to an endless babble of people, who don't realise that I'm eavesdropping on them, on the off chance that one of them might just ask for our help."

Virgil, reluctantly, had to agree that this was an accurate, if underwhelming description of the Space Monitor's job.

"I finally achieve something where I'm recognised for being me. Not for being a Tracy. Not for being a part of the space agency. For being me! I am John Tracy and people are starting to know me as John Tracy; not as the older blonde son of Jeff Tracy." John gave a bitter laugh. "Though my readers won't even know that I'm blonde. I couldn't even put my picture on the dust jacket."

"Are you having second thoughts? About International Rescue?"

"Would it matter if I did? No one listens to me. No one cares. Especially not Dad."

"That's not true, John. You know it's not…"

"Not true? Then why did he walk out of the book launch?"

"Didn't Gordon explain that?"

"Gordon!? What's Gordon got to do with it? He wasn't even there."

Virgil hesitated, wondering how he should respond. "You were talking to him the Monday afterwards. You told him that Father had walked out on you and he wanted to find out why, so he rang me to get the low-down. I told him that Father left because he felt that his being there was a distraction and he wanted you to get the attention you deserved. Didn't Gordon tell you this?"

"No."

Virgil sagged. "Oh, heck. I'm sorry, John. I would've called myself, but I was at work and I couldn't. I thought that he was going to tell you what had really happened so I didn't worry."

"Well, he didn't." John sneered. "Typical! I'm not even in orbit yet and you're all already forgetting me."

"No we're not. Gordon said he had to go back on duty soon afterwards. He must have got called away early. Don't forget he's the commander of the bathyscaphe!"

"But, you didn't think to call me up and check I was okay."

"No. I didn't think it would be necessary. If I'd known that Gordon hadn't been able to call you back then I would've at the first opportunity I had."

"Sure," John sneered. "Since when have you cared?"

"I've always cared! You're my br…"

"No, you don't. You're just like the rest of them, Virgil! You all forget about me!"

"When have I ever done that?" Virgil challenged.

"The week before, when you had that problem with Thunderbird Two's panel. You promised me that you'd ring that evening, but you forgot."

"I remembered… eventually." Even as Virgil spoke he felt a pang of guilt. "Remember I sent you an apology and I rang you the following night. You know why I couldn't ring you that evening. I was helping George Watts."

"And how long had you known him?"

"I met him that day."

"A stranger. You were more interested in helping a stranger than talking to me!"

"He needed my help. I didn't realise that you wanted my help too."

"You didn't ask. No one asks me how I am or what I think. They just assume that I'll go along with whatever everyone else says."

"We do care about you, John," Virgil protested. "Gordon wouldn't have asked my advice if he didn't."

"Why'd he ask you? Why not Scott?"

"Because he didn't want to risk Father overhearing."

"See. Gordon knows what Dad's like."

"He's not like th…"

"Did you know that Dad wasn't planning on buying a copy of my book?"

Virgil was reminded that when his brother got wound up there was a memory like an elephant hidden away beneath that quiet persona. "I saw that article and I can't explain it, except to suggest that it was a typo. Have you asked Father about it?"

"No."

"Why not? I think you need to talk to him."

"Why bother? He won't listen to me."

"Joh…"

"It's always been the same. All my life I've struggled to make him proud of me. I've done everything I could to be the best I could be so he'd notice me. But no…" there was a bitter laugh, "he'd never see me. He could never see past Scott: his perfect first-born son, who never had to struggle to achieve anything! Or Gordon; always in trouble but one look with that impish grin and he'd have Dad wrapped around his little finger. Or Alan; the baby of the family, always the one to be watched over and protected, always pitied because he can't remember Ma."

"Don't…"

"I remember her! But no one cares that I miss her!"

"Please don…"

"I remember! I remember Dad being so upset at losing her. I remember resolving that I'd never cause him any trouble because I didn't want to see him upset again… And look where it's got me!"

"John…"

"Even you!" John gave Virgil a disgusted look. "You: who reminded him so much of Ma with your looks and talents. You were always extra special to him."

"No!" Virgil exclaimed, appalled by what he was hearing. "Stop…"

"But what about me? Did he care about me? I was always the quiet son. The one in the background. 'Good old John. Give him his books and telescope and he'll be out of your hair for hours'. Forgotten."

"You're wrong, John. You know you're wrong. If Father knew what you were saying he'd be really hurt."

"He'd be hurt!? What about me? Face up to it, Virgil. I'm nothing to this family."

"JOHN!" Virgil's shout brought the tirade to a halt. "Stop a minute and think about what you're saying. You don't mean it."

John stuck out his jaw stubbornly. "Yes, I do."

"Okay, then…" Since refuting John's wild statements clearly wasn't working, Virgil decided to play along. "If you truly believe what you're saying, and I honestly don't think you do, why are you saying them now? Why not earlier? What's changed?"

"Let's just say that the last few months have been a real eye opener. Can't you see it, Virgil?"

"No, I can't. I honestly can't. I've never been aware that you were treated any differently to the rest of us. I can remember feeling jealous of you because I wanted Father to help me with some project and he was working with you on your first radio kitset." John gave a derisive snort. "I'm serious! We had to compete for Dad's attention. We couldn't all win all of the time."

"Yeah, right."

"What have you seen? Is there something that the rest of us have missed? If there is, we need to know or else International Rescue's doomed to failure before we've even started."

"International Rescue! That's all anyone's been going on about for years. International Rescue!"

"Because it's something we all think is worthwhile doing. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, yeah. Flying off to rescue the world! It's a great dream. But that's all it is. Do you actually think it's achievable?"

"I think we can at least try."

"But at what expense? He hasn't given any thought to us or what _we_ need."

"Who? Father?"

"Yes! He hasn't considered what he's asking us to do. WE haven't considered what he's asking us to do… until now."

"I'll admit that there's an element of danger…"

"Danger!? Virgil, he's asking us to lay our lives on the line for total strangers… Correction. He's asking _you_ to lay _your_ life on the line. Me? I'll be stuck miles above the earth, helpless… Helpless and useless."

"John. The Space Monitor is an important job… And if I can help one person then I'm more then willing to 'lay my life on the line'."

"But it's not only the danger I'm talking about. There are other aspects to our lives too. We're all young men and we're all just starting out in the world. There're things other guys our age take for granted that they're going to do and we're not going to be able to do them. We're not going to be allowed to _live_!"

"But we're going to give other people the chance to live. Isn't that more important than our own selfish needs?"

"Not if we end up as lonely, bitter, old men."

"Lonely?" Virgil felt as if a light bulb went on in his brain. "Is that what this is about? Have you got a girlfriend?" John hesitated. "You have, haven't you?"

"Not really…" John looked at his hands and his voice went quiet. "Well… There is this girl… And we have a few laughs together, but that's all. I wouldn't say we're serious, but I can't help thinking that if I'm stuck up in Thunderbird Five, I'm never going to get the chance to get serious with anyone, am I?"

"We're all going to be in the same boat, John," Virgil reminded him. "I'm not planning on getting involved with anyone. I don't think it would be fair on her or me."

"But, if you did, at least you'd have a chance to visit her. All you'd need to do is fly off in your plane. She could even visit you! I won't be able to do that. If you wanted to buy something, you can order it over the Internet and you'll have it within a couple of days. I'll have to wait until I come home or the next supply run." John began to get worked up again and the colour was rising in his face. "If you want some sunshine, all you'll have to do is step outside. If I want to step outside I'll have to take a risky spacewalk dressed up in a spacesuit, which would kinda defeat the purpose! If you want to talk with someone face-to-face, have a little human contact, all you'll need to do is step out of your room. I won't have that luxury!"

"You're right, John," Virgil admitted. "So does this mean that you don't want to be part of International Rescue?"

"I don't know what I want. I just know that I won't have your music. I won't have Gordon's jokes. I won't have Scott on hand for advice! I won't even get to see Alan for more than five minutes a month! I won't have Grandma's cooking! I won't have Dad's presence!!"

With understanding brought sympathy. "Ring him, John," Virgil urged. "Ring Father and tell him all this. He needs to know."

"I can't."

"Do you want me to? I will if you w…"

"No!" John shouted. "What will he think? Having a son who has got to rely on his younger brother to fight his battles for him? He's got no respect for me now…"

"No, John…"

"I mean nothing to him now. It's the rest of you that he cares about!"

"No…"

But it was too late. Face crimson, John was off on a tirade that seemed destined to denigrate every member of his family. Scott was narcissistic, arrogant and controlling. Gordon was hedonistic, stubborn and selfish. Alan was immature, hot-headed and if he didn't get himself killed would probably end up killing one of his brothers. Even Grandma didn't escape, being incapable of treating them as adults even though they'd been living away from home for some time. Virgil waited with some trepidation to see what his faults were; but either John couldn't think of anything, or else the fact that his brother was looking at him open-mouthed dismay enforced a form of self-censorship.

But it was Jeff Tracy who received the harshest treatment. He seemed to embody the worst of his family's failings and then some. He was domineering, egotistical, and with no thought for his own children's wellbeing. He was a tyrant, a dictator and an autocrat. He was only interested in forming International Rescue for his own glory, not for the betterment of others.

At last John took breath and there was silence.

"John?" Virgil ventured. "You don't mean that… Do you?"

John's mouth dropped open; his face an expression of pure horror as if he'd just awoken from a vivid nightmare … And then he switched off the videophone.

Virgil stared at the blank screen and tried to make sense of what had just happened. He had to do something, but the question was what? What would be best for John and International Rescue? There was no way that he would ever be able to discuss what had just happened with any of his brothers, meaning that his normal avenue of advice, namely Scott, had been squarely shot down.

Virgil could see only one option open to him and he dialled a number on the videophone. After what seemed to be an interminable period, a bleary eyed figure answered. But before there was a chance to formulate a greeting and ask why he was being rung in the middle of the night, Virgil spoke. "Don't say a word. Ring John. Now!" He gave himself enough time to register Jeff's bewildered expression before he disconnected the call.

Now what? Had he done the right thing? Would his father be awake enough to handle the situation tactfully? Would John clam up or tell his father his true feelings?

Would John hate Virgil?

Virgil hoped not. He couldn't help but feel sorry for John. His older brother was definitely the quietest of them all, and Virgil supposed that having four rambunctious brothers couldn't have always been easy for him.

Agitated, unable to settle to anything, his coffee untouched in the cup, and wide awake even though it was late, Virgil paced his apartment. He tried playing his piano keyboard, but the electronic nature of the instrument did little to soothe him. Wishing that he had a full-blooded wooden piano to play, he tried to paint, but even that couldn't help him relax. The idea of studying International Rescue documents appalled him.

He endured a good hour of fretting before the phone rang again. Wondering if his entire future was about to be turned upside-down he answered.

"Are you all right?"

After the simultaneous greeting, both men managed a nervous chuckle. "You go first," Virgil offered.

"That was…" Jeff pursed his lips, "unexpected… Were your ears burning?"

"Was it was my turn to be dismembered? He seemed content to sacrifice everyone else while I was listening."

Jeff nodded. "I don't think there's anything to be gained by repeating what was said. Had you any indication that he felt like this?"

"No," Virgil admitted. "Well, not to that extent. It was a bit of a shock. I came home to phone messages full of him busting to tell me about the Theydon Book Award, but when I rang him I encountered a stranger. What did he say to you?"

"He began by demanding to know if you'd told me to call him. I was able to answer honestly that I hadn't spoken to you." Jeff's eyes showed a moment's respect. "Good thinking, Virgil."

"Thanks. Then what?"

"He, in his words, told me a 'few home truths'. And I will admit, if you were able to dig beneath all the slanderous anger, he did have some good points. Being part of International Rescue is going to be an isolating experience for us all; more so for John and Alan. I've been well aware of that fact and I'd hoped that you'd considered it before agreeing to come on board." Jeff frowned in thought. "Maybe I should have discussed it with you. If so, then I'll accept the full blame for John's outburst." He looked his son in the eye. "I'm sorry, Virgil."

Virgil waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. Did… ah… Did he mention the newspaper article?"

"Yes. And I'll take full responsibility for that too. I should have known better than to say that I wouldn't be buying a copy of his book… Don't look at me like that," Jeff added, seeing Virgil's resultant expression. "What I actually said, but what the 'gentlemen' of the press declined to publish, was that I wasn't going to buy one because I was hoping to receive a copy for a birthday present. I also said that I thought it was an excellent book and I would recommend it to anyone."

Virgil nodded slowly. "That's sounds more like you. Did John accept your explanation?"

"He seemed mollified. But I think he's feeling trapped at the moment. He's discovering that there's a whole world of choices available to him, but he feels that he's already chained himself to International Rescue."

"So what is he going to do?"

"I've told him to take some time to think about whether or not he wants to be part of the organisation. I've given him until Thanksgiving."

Virgil nodded again. "Fair enough, but I hope he decides to come on board... Well, since you've got it all more or less under control, I'll let you go back to bed..."

"Hold on…" Jeff was as yet unwilling to let the discussion drop. "What about you, Virgil? Have you fully considered what being a member of International Rescue will entail?"

"Yes."

Jeff looked doubtful over his son's answer. "I am going to extend my offer to you and your brothers. I'm giving you all until Thanksgiving to decide if you're prepared to fully commit to International Rescue."

"But there's no need…"

"Humour me, Virgil. It's got to be all or nothing. There can't be any doubts."

"I'm not going to change my mind, Father. I've been excited by the idea of being part of your international rescue organisation ever since you first told us about your plans."

Jeff chuckled. "I know. But initially I wasn't sure that you were excited for the right reasons."

Virgil gave an embarrassed grimace. "I'll admit that it was the machines that attracted me at first, but since then, every time I've heard about some disaster in the news I've thought that it won't be long and then perhaps we'll be able to make a difference."

"I hope so," Jeff admitted. "A lot of work's gone into this project… A lot of time and a lot of money. But my offer still stands. You have until Thanksgiving to give it full consideration…" He half turned when he heard a sound. "It sounds like Scott's up, so I'll talk to him now…"

Virgil experienced a moment's anxiety. "You won't mention John, will you?"

"No. It'll be better for John if we keep what's happened between the three of us." Jeff looked at his watch. "I'll try and contact the others throughout the day." He looked back up. "You'd better go get some sleep." He grinned. "You don't want the boss telling you off for falling asleep on the job."

"I don't know if I'll be able to sleep," Virgil admitted. "I'm still too keyed up. I wish I could fit a piano in here."

Jeff looked surprised. "Doesn't your keyboard work?"

"It's not the same as the real thing."

"Well, there's a piano in the social club room at ACE. Have a word with Hamish; I'm sure he'll let you use it outside of work hours."

Virgil nodded. "I'll do that tomorrow."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The social club room was empty.

Virgil slid the dust cloth off the old upright piano and then lifted the lid. Hamish Mickelson had warned him that it might be out of tune and it was with some apprehension that he tried pressing a few keys. To his relief he discovered that while it wasn't up to the standard of the piano that resided in the family home, it wasn't too bad. He sat on the stool and ran through a few scales, smiling as he did so. There was no instrument in the world that could compare to a genuine piano.

He'd allocated himself the half hour before work began and intended to make the most of it. Beginning with a few simple tunes, he progressed into more and more challenging pieces, becoming wrapped up in the melodies and the joy of making music come alive.

Finally the alarm on his watch beeped, telling him that time was up. He completed the final piece of music and, reluctantly, lowered the lid of the piano.

He was startled when applause broke out behind him. Turning, his face burning, Virgil realised that it appeared that most of the employees of ACE were standing there and had been listening to his impromptu concert. He'd been so caught up in the music he hadn't even heard them arrive. "Oh… Uh… Hi… I thought I'd get some practise… Um… While no one was about…"

Bruce was grinning at him. "Lou thought he heard music when he walked past. We never dreamt it was you playing."

Virgil gave an embarrassed shrug. "It wasn't very good. I'm out of practise."

"It sounded alright to me," one of his workmates said.

"Yeah," someone agreed. "If that was 'out of practise', I'd love to hear you in peak form."

"When's the next social club event, Bruce?" Lisa Crump asked. "We could ask Virgil to give us a concert, or at least provide the music for the dance."

"Oh, no!" Virgil exclaimed. "I couldn't do that!"

"Good idea, Lisa," Bruce agreed.

"Bruce…" Virgil protested.

"We'll discuss it at the next meeting," Bruce declared. "I'm the president of the social club," he explained. He winked at Virgil. "You'd better start getting more practise in."

"What is everyone doing in here?!" Like the parting of the Red Sea, people stood back to allow the speaker room.

It was Max Watts.

"We were listening to Virgil play the piano," someone explained.

Watts turned his attention to Virgil. "I hope you had permission, Mr Tancy."

"I asked Mr Mickelson," Virgil admitted. "He said it was all right for me to come in early. I'll make sure that I'll finish my practise before work begins."

"You had better," Watts growled. "And it's due to start in one minute's time. Everyone out of here now!" There was a general muttering as people filed out of the room. "That includes you, Mr Tancy."

"Just leaving," Virgil admitted. "I want to put my phone in my locker first…" He took it out of his pocket and noticed he had a text message.

It was from Scott. _"Conference call at 0015 tomorrow, Tracy Island time. Let me know if you can't make it."_

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

This was going to be a phone conversation with his brothers that Virgil wasn't looking forward to. He had a fair idea what the topic of discussion was going to be about and he didn't fancy being put on the spot. He was even less enthusiastic about the idea of John getting the third degree.

He was late home. He'd clocked up some overtime and had stopped off to buy a meal. If he'd been honest with himself he would have admitted that he was trying to put off the inevitable.

"About time," Alan complained when he'd made the connection. "We were beginning to think that you weren't going to join us."

"I got caught up at work," Virgil protested. "'Scuse me if I eat while we talk." He dug his fork into his Chinese.

"That's something I'm looking forward to," Gordon admitted. "Fast food! The food here's not bad but occasionally I get a craving for something greasy and badly cooked. I wonder if Brains can make a teleportation machine."

"You won't get fast food very often once International Rescue starts," Alan reminded him.

"If it starts," Gordon rejoined. "What's with this 'think about whether you want to take part' business anyway?"

"That's what I want us to discuss," Scott said. "And why I called this meeting. Are you all free to talk?"

Virgil glanced at the videophone as he gave his affirmation. The screen had been divided into four; with Scott in the top left, and a so far silent John in the top right quadrants, while Alan and Gordon occupied the bottom two. He resumed his inspection of his meal.

"Something's clearly happened," Scott continued. "I got up this morning as usual and was accosted by Father in the kitchen. He told me that I was to give serious thought as to whether or not I wanted to join International Rescue and that I wasn't to give an answer until Thanksgiving. Did he tell you guys the same thing?" He received two strident confirmations and two silent nods in reply.

"That's an early start for him," Alan said. "He must have had a bad dream or something."

"He didn't seem tired," Scott admitted. "He was wide awake and deadly serious. The question is: what's brought this on?"

Virgil speared a piece of cauliflower.

Alan was expanding on his hypothesis. "Maybe he dreamt that something happened to one of us and it's made him nervous?"

"Has something gone wrong with the plans?" Gordon suggested. "Maybe one of Brains' designs isn't working?"

"Maybe Dad's running short of money?" Alan offered. "He still wants to create International Rescue but he's going to have to cut back on equipment. Which ever one of us gives up, that's the Thunderbird that's not going to be built."

"He'll be hoping it's not you then," Gordon said. "Thunderbird Five won't be much use if we don't have Thunderbird Three to get John up to it."

Scott shook his head. "I don't think that's the problem. I haven't been following his business interests too closely, but I've been hearing enough to know that he's not concerned; either financially or about Brains' work. Look, I know we all want to be part of International Rescue. We've been too working long and too hard towards it to give up. I say that we tell him here and now…"

"Isn't it the early hours of the morning there, Scott?" Gordon asked.

Scott, a man for whom sleep meant little, appeared surprised by the question. "Uh… Yes, I guess so."

"Then maybe '_here and now_'s' not a good idea."

"Okay!" Scott sighed, irritated by the interruption. "First thing after he gets up then. I'll tell him that we've talked and that we don't need to wait until Thanksgiving."

But Virgil decided that it was time to speak up. "Don't you think he's got a point, Scott?"

"What?" Scott's frown reappeared. "Who? Father!?"

"Yes. Have you all considered what we're going to be doing as part of International Rescue? The sacrifices that we're going to make? How isolating it's going to be living on Tracy Island?"

His brothers were all staring at him as if he'd lost his marbles, and he stabbed at a piece of carrot before he decided that he was no longer hungry and pushed the dish away.

"Are you having second thoughts, Virg?" Scott growled.

Virgil stared the video image in the eye. "No. But I do think that it won't hurt to evaluate…"

"Well, I'm not giving up," Gordon interrupted.

"Yeah. Me neither," Alan added. "I take it that you're not giving up, Scott?"

"Of course not!"

"Good. Then if I'm not giving up, you're not giving up, Virgil's not giving up, Gordon's not giving up, and John's not giving up…"

"Hang on, Alan!" Virgil exclaimed. "You're taking everyone for granted…"

Alan made an exasperated noise. "What is it with you, Virgil? You say you're still keen on being part of International Rescue, but you keep on coming up with reasons not to tell Dad that. What's wrong?"

"I think that there's a possibility that we haven't given full consideration to what we're going to be doing. Have you thought about what you're going to be doing, Alan? You're going to be alone in orbit for weeks on end!"

Alan made a dismissive gesture. "Of course I've thought about that. I can handle it."

"We've all been thinking about this for years, Virgil," Scott stated. "I think we all know what we're doing."

Virgil glanced at John's impassive face, wanting to spare his brother any embarrassment or an inquisition from their siblings. "Well, can't we at least humour Father? He clearly thinks that we need this time…"

"I've had all the time I need and now I've got to get back to work," Gordon stated. "Hands up all those who think we should tell Dad, as soon as he wakes up, that we're all on board." Three hands were raised. "Hands up those who think we should wait."

With no real sense of conviction, Virgil raised his hand.

"The vote is in favour of continuing on with International Rescue. Sorry, Virgil. You're outnumbered."

"Hang on a sec, Gordon," Scott interrupted. "John? I didn't see you raise your hand."

"That's because I didn't." All eyes turned to the speaker. "I've been listening to you all rave on, and I see you're all as narrow-minded as ever. Well, you can tell Dad what you want, fellas, because I'm the reason why he's given us time to think and I aim to use every last second of it. And there's nothing any of you can say to change my mind. Now…" John eyeballed each of his brothers except Virgil, "this has been an interesting get together, but I've got better things to do with my time. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll talk to you later." His quadrant dissolved and Scott's image slid across so it occupied the top of the videophone's screen.

There was a moment's numb silence as everyone considered John's announcement.

"What," Gordon said with feeling, "was that all about? Anyone know?"

"He's always been so keen," Alan agreed. "The last few times I've been with him, if he hasn't been talking about that book of his he's been discussing International Rescue."

"You know something, don't you, Virg?" Scott asked.

"I know that Father wants us to think about what we're doing," Virgil mumbled.

"But you also know something about John," Scott pressed.

Virgil nodded, evaluating his response. "He's having second thoughts."

"Second thoughts!" Gordon exclaimed.

"Why?!" Alan added, sounding equally astonished. "If it wasn't for John I wouldn't even dream of being part of Thunderbird Five's rotation. He's told me all sorts of interesting things to look out for. He's got me nearly as excited about getting up there as he is… I mean was."

"You should tell him that, Alan," Virgil urged.

"Tell him what?" Alan asked, bemused.

"That… That you appreciate what he's taught you."

Alan's bemusement didn't dissipate. "But he knows that."

"Does he?"

"This doesn't make sense," Gordon said. "What's changed to make John willing to give up on having his own private observatory?"

"He…" Virgil chose his words carefully. "He's discovered that he's got a life."

"Ah!" Scott's face lit up in understanding.

Alan was shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"Don't try to understand, Alan," Gordon suggested. "We're not in the loop. They've got the old telepathy thing going again."

"Shut up, Gordon," Virgil snapped. "We can't do telepathy and I'm sick and tired of people saying we can!"

"Geez, Virg," Gordon responded. "It was a joke. I don't know what ACE has done to you, but you've lost what little sense of humour you had."

"No. It's your inane voicemail messages that have made me lose…"

"Settle down, Guys," Scott ordered.

"What…" Alan frowned, "is 'he's discovered that he's got a life' supposed to mean?"

"You know John, he's always been so quiet…" Virgil began, feeling as though he was gossiping behind his brother's back. "But haven't you noticed how he's come out of his shell these last few years? You commented on it yourself, Alan. At the book launch."

"So?" Alan challenged.

"Alan," Scott said patiently. "He's realised that there's more to life than astronomy and communications."

Virgil nodded. "That's it."

"Huh?" Alan's frown deepened.

"John's success has made him realise that he's got other talents and interests beyond those he'll utilise in International Rescue," Scott explained.

Virgil gave an emphatic nod. "Right."

"Like his writing."

"Exactly!"

"And this astronomical tour he's been offered."

"Yes!"

"Do you understand now?" Scott asked, and received a pair of nods.

"Right," Gordon said. "Now that that's sorted, what are we going to do to convince him that we need him?"

"Simple," Alan responded. "Tell him to pull himself together."

"That's precisely what we're not going to do, Alan," Virgil stated.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll only make him dig his heels in and then there'll be no chance that he'll be part of the team."

"This is crazy," Scott said. "Virgil, this is John we're talking about."

"I know…"

"...He just goes with the flow. He's never dug his heels in his life."

"There's a first time for everything, and where International Rescue is concerned, if we push him, I'll guarantee that we'll push him away… Maybe even away from the family." Virgil's brothers stared at him.

"You're exaggerating," Gordon stated.

"No," Virgil shook his head. "I'm not. I'm serious! John's at a crossroads and he needs our support, not pressure."

"But International Rescue can't exist without him," Alan exclaimed. "There's no way I'm spending any longer up in Thunderbird Five than I have to."

"I thought you said you were looking forward to it," Gordon reminded him.

"Not that much… Look… Why don't we call him up now and talk to…"

Virgil suddenly became furious with his brothers. "No, we won't!"

"But…"

"You leave him alone, Alan!"

Pretending to concede defeat, Alan appeared to give a nonchalant shrug. "Okay then." He glanced at Scott.

A gesture that wasn't missed by Virgil. "I'm warning you, Alan: if I hear that you, or anyone…" he shifted his attention to Scott, "has tried to coerce John into remaining with International Rescue then, even if he stays, I'm quitting."

His announcement was met exclamations of concern. "You wouldn't," Gordon gulped. "You're joking."

Virgil glared at him. "You're the one who said I haven't got a sense of humour."

"But why?" Alan asked. "You're as keen as any of us to get started."

"Because if you can't trust me with this, there's no way you'll trust me to make decisions when we're in the middle of a raging inferno." Virgil reached out for the disconnection switch. "Now, as far as I'm concerned, this conversation is over." He flicked the switch and the phone went blank.

He figured that he might have time to make himself a fresh cup of coffee before he'd be disturbed again.

He was right. He'd just settled down in front of the videophone with a steaming brew, when the phone rang. "Scott."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about. I'm serious."

"You'd really leave International Rescue if we talked to John?"

"Yep." Virgil took a sip of his drink.

"Then what would you do?"

Virgil made an exasperated sound. "We haven't all burnt our bridges, Scott!" His brother's reaction produced a stab of guilt, and Virgil got an idea of the expression his own face must have registered less than 24 hours ago. "I'm sorry," he apologised. "That was uncalled for."

"'Sokay," Scott mumbled, staring at the keypad.

"The terrible twosome made me so angry that I didn't think about what I was saying."

"I know."

Virgil leant closer, trying to look his brother in the eye. "Okay?"

Scott nodded, pulled himself together and looked up so he was able to meet Virgil's gaze. "Do you think John doesn't want to join us?"

Virgil sat back. "I honestly don't know. I think he's still keen on being part of International Rescue, but he's only just realised what being the Space Monitor will entail."

"I know that this is going to sound spiteful, but why did he talk to you? Why not me?"

Virgil gave a wry chuckle. "I struck it unlucky."

"And you told him to talk to Father, which is why we've got this amnesty?"

"No. I… Father happened to ring him when he was still wound up after talking to me. By all accounts he got the works too."

"Wound up!? You mean 'touch paper lit, better stand back' wound up?"

"Yep. He could supply the booster rockets for his trip to the space station."

"Oh…" Scott gave his own chuckle. "You have my deepest sympathies."

Virgil laughed. "Thanks."

"So… Until he makes up his mind, we don't talk to John about International Rescue…"

"I wouldn't say 'don't talk to him'," Virgil said, mindful of John's accusations that no one cared. "Just let him know that we're all supporting him while he makes the decision, we'll back him whatever he decides, and that you're there if he wants to talk about it."

Scott nodded; a thoughtful expression on his face. "Should I ring him now, or leave it until tomorrow?"

"Ring him now," Virgil suggested.

"Okay."

"But remember: no pressure!"

Scott barked out a laugh of his own. "This is a switch: me asking you for advice. Maybe you should take control of Thunderbird One."

Virgil made a face. "No thanks. I'd rather not travel inside an overgrown firecracker."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

One month later and most of those members of the Tracy family who were above water were together again. This time they were crammed into a room that had been divided into two by a sheet of glass.

Jeff looked about him. "This brings back memories."

"Except that last time you were on that side of the glass," his mother reminded him. She shifted trying to get comfortable. "I think they're still using the same chairs that they had twenty years ago."

"They probably haven't recovered from Alan and Gordon running all over them," Scott laughed.

She tutted. "Your poor mother was practically tearing her hair out trying to control you all."

The door opened and an aide stepped inside. "Sorry for the wait. John's been held up at a briefing. He's on his way over now."

"Thank you," Jeff acknowledged and the aide retreated.

At the same moment a door on the other side of the glass partition opened. As the young blonde, wearing official Space Agency overalls, stepped inside the booth, the Tracys rose to their feet. "Sorry to keep you waiting," John apologised. "There's been a rethink on some of the experiments and they've been bringing us up to speed." He looked at his watch. "I'm afraid that it's cut into our time." He paused, looking at his family. "How are you all?"

"We're fine," Jeff responded. "More importantly, with less than 24 hours till lift-off, how are you?"

"Fine. The nerves haven't hit me yet. It won't be until I'm strapped into that rocket that I'll realise what I'm about to do." He placed his hand on the glass. "I wish this wasn't necessary."

"Quarantine's a necessary evil," Jeff reminded him. "You don't want to be sick while you're on the space station."

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "We're not ready to rescue you yet." He received glares from various members of his family.

Virgil stood at the back and listened to the conversation as it progressed. He hadn't spoken to John since that alarming phone call and his brother hadn't tried to contact him… unless he was the source of those 'no message left' calls left on his answer-phone. From what he had been told John had given no indication to any member of his family as to whether International Rescue was to be a part of his life, and, before they'd entered this room, everyone had expressed a hope that John would choose this final meeting before he left for the space station to give them his answer.

Up till now there had been no evidence that this was going to happen. John had been happily bantering with his family and there'd been no undercurrent that he was planning on making an announcement.

There was a momentary break in the conversation.

John lost his smile. "Virgil…" Surprised, Virgil looked at him. "I…"

The door on the Tracys' side of the partition opened and a young woman, with the glow brought on by an obviously advanced state of pregnancy, bustled in. "Oh, John! I'm so glad I haven't missed you."

John looked startled. "Tracey!"

She gave the family a shy smile. "Please accept my apologies for intruding like this, but I just had to see him before he left."

"I'm glad you did." John's startled expression melted into a smile. "I'm surprised they let you through."

"They nearly didn't." Tracey patted her bulging belly. "But once they'd convinced themselves that I wasn't hiding a bomb in here they thought I was harmless."

"Won't be long now," John said, and the Tracys weren't sure whether he was referring to the imminent arrival of the child or his own departure. He introduced Tracey to a bemused family.

Tracey greeted them all and then turned back to the glass, losing her smile. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too. But hey! Remember I'm only gone a month. Besides, by the time I get back you'll both be that busy you won't have time to bother with me."

"Never." Tracey pasted the smile back on again in an obvious effort to try to be brave. "You know how we've been thinking about names," she said. "I thought this child couldn't have a better start in the world than to be named after someone as wonderful as his father. What do you think?"

"Oh, please no!" John exclaimed. "That's a nice idea, but you can't have two Johns in the same family. Take it from someone who's gone through most of his life getting confused with others of the same name. Wait until you've had the baby. Then you can choose a name based on its personality. Something a bit more exclusive than 'John'."

"I'll think about it." Tracey placed her hand on his, palm-to-palm through the glass. "I wish you didn't have to go before 'Little Johnny' arrives."

"I wish I could wait too." John said, oblivious to the consternation that was growing in his family. "But you know how these things work. Our destinies are controlled by higher powers. You'll just have to remember those breathing exercises and pretend that I'm doing them with you."

She nodded and tried to hold back the tears; lifting her head in an attitude of defiance. "I'm not going to let these hormones run away with me," she declared, and sniffed.

The door on John's side of the partition opened and a protective-suited person looked inside. "Time's up, John."

"Oh… Thanks." John's smile vanished. "Well, I guess this is it."

"I'm sorry. I've taken away your time with your family," Tracey apologised. "I feel awful."

"Don't. Please," Jeff Tracy said quickly. "Its, ah, nice to meet a, ah, 'friend' of John's."

"Well…" John said, suddenly awkward with his goodbyes. "Be seein' ya." He started a kind of side-on shuffle towards the door. "I'll miss you all."

"As soon as you're home I'll make you your favourite dinner," Grandma promised.

John beamed at her. "You realise that I'll be doing nothing but dreaming about that for a whole month now." He stopped at the exit. "Take care… Everyone." His family responded with an equally awkward "you too".

"John." The figure at the door beckoned.

"I've got to go," John admitted. "Bye," and for a moment he caught Virgil's eye and the merest fraction of a smile crossed his lips.

Then he was gone.

Tracey sighed. "He's a wonderful man."

"We were planning on going to the canteen for a coffee," Jeff said. "Would you care to join us, Tracey?"

"Oh," she said, suddenly flummoxed by the invitation. "I've already intruded once."

"Please," Grandma insisted.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The three remaining Tracy brothers had bought everyone's coffees and were in a huddle around a table while Jeff and Grandma tried to console a sobbing Tracey who'd finally given in to her tears.

"Well, I didn't think much could shock me, but that's done it," Scott said, his voice low so he wouldn't be overheard. "No wonder John's not keen on joining International Rescue!"

"Did you know?" Virgil asked.

"No," Scott admitted. "To use a phrase I learnt in England, I'm gobsmacked! What about you?"

"He told me that he was seeing someone. But he said they weren't serious!"

"That looks pretty serious to me," Alan smirked as he eyed Tracey's rounded frame. "I can't wait to see Gordon's face when I tell him!"

Scott leant closer to his little brother. "You are not going to say a word to Gordon…" Alan's smirk vanished. "At least not until Virg and I are there to see his face too!"

Alan's uncompleted pout morphed back into a grin. "Deal…! Didya see Dad's face!? And Grandma's?! I thought she was going to have a fit!"

"I was too busy looking at yours," Scott informed him. "I can't believe it… John!" He shook his head as if he were trying to clear it. "It's always the quiet ones."

"D'ya suppose that if it's a girl they'll call her Tracey Tracy?" Alan snickered.

Virgil had been watching the trio by the coffee machine. "Shhh. Here they come."

They sat back and Scott stood to hold out a chair for Tracey. "So… How long have you known John?"

Tracey thought. "It must be close to a year now."

"Nine months anyway," Alan whispered to Virgil.

Virgil kicked him on the ankle.

"He's given me so much," Tracey said.

"Obviously." Alan hid his laugh behind a cough.

Virgil dug him in the ribs.

"He's been wonderful," Tracey gushed, not noticing the interaction between brothers. "So supportive. I couldn't have got through these last few months without him."

Virgil glared at Alan, warning him not to say anything.

"John's told me all about his family," Tracey continued.

Everyone tried to think of something intelligent to say that wasn't "_he hasn't told us anything about you._"

"When's the baby due, Dear?" Grandma asked.

"Next week," Tracey admitted. "But I'm hoping we've all got our dates wrong. I want his father by my side when this little one makes its appearance." She looked down and rubbed her abdomen tenderly.

"Well, if you need anything," Jeff reached into his wallet and pulled out his card, handing it to Tracey, "just call me."

"Oh, I wouldn't like to bother you! You're such a busy man!"

"Trust me. If I can help I'll make time. If I can't make time I'll find someone who can."

"Thank you," Tracey placed the card into her purse.

"Tracey!" someone called.

Six people looked up. Tracey giggled. "John's right. Having the same name is confusing… Over here, Bev!"

Bev hurried over to the table. "Your mother's looking for you. She's down at reception."

"Oh… Thanks." Tracey turned back to the Tracys. "I'm sorry, but I've got to go. Thank you for being so understanding." The four Tracy men stood as she levered herself out of the chair. "It's at times like this that I don't think I want to wait after all," she puffed.

"Don't forget to call me if you need anything," Jeff reminded her.

"I won't." Tracey patted her purse. "It's been nice to finally meet you all. I hope we can get together again some time after John gets back." She and Bev hurried away.

The four men took their seats and the three younger ones looked at their father and grandmother to see their reactions.

Jeff was the first to speak. "Did anyone else know?" He watched Virgil as four people shook their heads.

"Did you?" Scott asked.

"I'm as shocked as the rest of you."

"When do you think he was going to tell us?" Virgil asked.

"When he got back, I suppose," Grandma mused. "You can't hide a baby."

"He's done all right so far," Alan tittered.

But Virgil was wondering if they'd received the answer to the question that had been vexing them all.

Did this mean that John wasn't going to join International Rescue?

_To be continued…_


	6. A Quiet Confrontation

**6: A Quiet Confrontation**

Virgil slid the wall panel back into place and cast a critical gaze about his studio apartment. Maybe it could have done with a bit of a clean, but then to his eye it wasn't untidy either. Besides, what with work, extra-curricular courses and his social life, he rationalised that he wasn't home often enough to see the 'mess'. His grandmother would have had a fit if she'd known that his dishes were still in the dishwasher, but hey; no one could see them there so who were they hurting? Tubes of oil paints were strewn all over the floor from where he'd accidentally knocked them last night, but at least none of them were open or had leaked. Probably that towel hanging over the bars of the gym equipment should have gone into the laundry basket, and the laundry in the basket (and that which was overflowing out of it) probably should have gone into the wash, but, apart from that and a possible need for a light dusting, Virgil thought the place didn't look too bad.

In fact, Virgil didn't really care what the place looked like: with two exceptions. He was always very careful to make sure that all evidence of the future International Rescue was safely hidden away in the concealed safe behind the wall panel. In fact he was so careful about this that he was beginning to wonder if, as the plans were being finalised, he was beginning to become a little paranoid.

His second concession to tidiness was that Virgil always made sure that his bed and bed clothes were neat and tidy. His rationale for this was three-fold. One: he never knew when he might have guests and as his bedroom was also his living area he didn't like to give the impression that he was a total slob. Two, he never knew when his grandmother might arrive and she'd always been a stickler for a tidily made bed. And three, Virgil loved nothing more than after a hard, grimy day's work, having had a long hot shower, sliding in between crisp, clean, sweet-smelling sheets. It was because of this last reason, more than any other, that he'd changed his bed linen this morning, adding the old ones to the ever growing laundry basket.

He checked his daypack. Yes, he had everything he needed. Time to leave…

The doorbell rang.

Surprised that someone should be visiting on a Sunday morning, Virgil opened the door to a young woman he'd never seen before.

"Excuse me," she said. "Are you Virgil Tancy?"

Even after all this time Virgil still had to consciously remind himself that that was who he was supposed to be. "Yes."

"My name is Rita Garrad and I'm a friend of Lisa Crump's," the stranger said. "She and I have been away this weekend and we drove back this morning because I've got to be at a family function by lunchtime… And… Well… This is a bit of an imposition…"

Virgil, waiting, wondered what this had to do with him.

"You're wondering why I'm telling you this," Rita said, as if she'd read his mind. "But you see Lisa's a terrible traveller and she'll probably tell you that I'm a terrible driver. We took my car and we agreed that Lisa would drive us there and I'd drive the return journey. Anyway, because of this thing I've got to go to, we didn't have any breaks on the way back and I'm afraid Lisa's been sick and it's gone everywhere. She and Butch live on the other side of town, but she doesn't feel up to travelling that far and she was wondering if you'd mind if she came in to recover… Or at least give her something to drink and let her clean up a bit."

"I was just going out…" Virgil began. The he hesitated. "I guess she can stay here until she feels better. Where is she?" He grabbed an empty container.

"In the car." Rita led the way out to an old vehicle that looked to have done more miles than a politician on the lead up to an election.

Lisa was sitting side-on in the passenger seat; her eyes shut as she rested her head against the door strut and let the cool air play across her face. Virgil reflected that even green about the gills, flushed with beads of perspiration, and with part of her stomach contents down her front, she still looked like she should be relaxing in the seat of a sleek red convertible, rather than slumped in a tatty old rust bucket. "Hey," he said, crouching down so that he was closer to her eyelevel. "I hear you're not feeling so good."

Lisa opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. "I can't face going any further," she admitted. "I'm sorry, Virgil. I don't want to put you out."

"Don't worry about it, I've been there," he reassured her handing her the bowl. "My father's commanding officer took us for a ride in his car once. It was a big deal, we were all trying to be on our best behaviour and I had to go and be sick all over the back seat."

Lisa threw up into his container.

It was Virgil's turn to apologise. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned the 'S' word. You forget how bad it is when you've outgrown it." He stood and held out his hand to her. "Are you able to walk?"

Lisa nodded and got to her feet. "I wish I'd outgrow it." She leant on his arm, cradling the container close, while Rita grabbed a bag from the boot and followed them up the path. "I'm sorry, Virgil," she repeated.

They made into the apartment without mishap. "Rita, why don't you take Lisa into the bathroom and help her get cleaned up?" Virgil suggested. "I'll put the kettle on and see if I can find something plain for her to eat. I think I've got some crackers in here."

"I'm sorry," Lisa repeated again. "I'm being an awful nuisance."

"Go," he said, pointing in the direction of the bathroom. "That shirt can't be helping you feel any better."

Lisa looked down at her stained top. "I am a mess, aren't I?"

"Come on, Leece," Rita pulled gently on her friend's arm. "I've got your clothes in your bag."

"Great," Lisa moaned. "Yesterday's clothes. Whatever will you think of me, Virgil?"

"I think you're someone who'll be just fine once you've got cleaned up and have had a rest." Virgil moved into his kitchenette, filled up and turned on the kettle. He found a packet of crackers and placed two mugs, two plates, some butter and a jar of a breakfast spread on the counter. Then he looked at his furniture. His sofa could seat two, but was too small to lie on in any comfort. He looked at his watch. He was cutting it fine. He knocked on the bathroom door. "Rita."

The door opened a crack. "Yes?"

"Look. I've got to go out. I'm part way through a first aid course and I can't afford to miss any lessons. You two can stay here as long as you need. The kettle's boiled and I've left something to eat. Help yourself if you need anything else. If Lisa needs to lie down for a while, I've changed my sheets this morning so she can use my bed."

Lisa heard him and she peered around the door, looking no happier. "I can't do that, Virgil!"

"There's no other real option, unless you want to lie on the floor," he told her. "Don't worry about it. I'll change the sheets again when I get back. I'm going to be gone for five hours, so when you leave just lock the door behind you. If you have to go before she's ready, Rita, perhaps you'll give Butch a call and let her know where he can pick her up?"

Rita nodded and smiled. "Thanks, Virgil. You've been great."

"I'm sorry, Virgil," Lisa said, yet again.

"Don't worry," he repeated. "Just relax until you're feeling better. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

The bathroom door closed and Virgil jogged over to his bag and picked it up before looking at his watch again. He was going to be late. He ran from his apartment…

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil had forgotten all about his unexpected guests when he returned home that afternoon. His initial plan had been to stop off at the supermarket to stock up for the week. That was until the one of the other trainees, who had been practising inserting intravenous drips into one of the lifelike mannequins, miscalculated and had sprayed 'blood' everywhere; mainly over Virgil. Since he had no intention of wandering through the shop looking like a chainsaw murderer, he'd headed home to change his shirt first.

He unlocked the door, dropped his bag on the floor, stripped off the shirt and threw it in the direction of the laundry basket. The sight of crumpled sheets reminded him that he was going to have to make his bed for a second time that day, so he grabbed them as well before realising that something unexpected was caught up in the linen. Something white and lacy.

A woman's teddy.

It was then that he realised that he could hear the sound of his shower running.

Horrified he dropped the lingerie and the sheets. "Lisa?"

There was an exclamation of surprise from behind the bathroom door. "Oh, Virgil… I'm sorry. I… I lost track of time… I'll be out soon."

"Uh… Take your time…" He called and then wondered if he would have been better to have told her to hurry up. If Butch arrived and found his wife naked… In another man's apartment…

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, heck!" Virgil took a deep breath to settle his nerves. "It's all perfectly innocent," he told himself as he approached the door. "There's no way he can think that something's happened because nothing has happened." But, despite his own reassurances, Virgil found himself praying that it wasn't Lisa's husband waiting outside.

It wasn't.

It was someone much worse.

Much, much, _much_ worse!

Infinitely much more worse.

"Grandma!"

"Hello, Virgil, darling." Grandma took in his startled expression and lack of shirt. "Have I interrupted something?"

"Uh… No…"

"Then are you going to invite me in?"

"Of course…" Virgil stood to one side and allowed the diminutive form of his grandmother to enter his home. He gave her a brief, nervous, peck on the cheek. "I, uh, wasn't expecting you… I haven't got any food in the house and I was planning on going to the supermarket. Yeah!" he exclaimed, sensing a solution to his dilemma. "Would you like to come with me?"

But Grandma was at his bedside, surveying his flat and tsking. "Really, Virgil Tracy! I was expecting more from you. This place is a mess. Look!" She picked up the crumpled sheets. "You haven't even made your…" She found the scrap of white lace. "What's this?" She unfurled the teddy.

"Uh… I can explain Grandma…"

"I'm sure you can…"

The bathroom door opened…

Lisa stepped out into the room; drying her hair and wearing little more than a towel that just managed to conceal the bare necessities. "That shower was heavenly, Virgil. Nearly as good as your bed! You are such a sweetheart to let me take advantage of you like this and I'll pay you for your services, of course..." she saw the little old lady and turned pink. "Uh... I mean for your water..."

"L-Lisa…" Virgil stammered, not sure whether it was safer to look at the nearly naked woman or the angry one. "Th-This is my grandmother."

"Oh…" Lisa still looked stunned. "H-Hello." She tightened knot on the towel.

Virgil could never remember feeling so desperate. "It's not how it looks, Grandma!"

Her lips were a thin line. "Indeed…" She held out the lingerie at the end of two fingers. "I assume this is yours."

"Uh…" Lisa took the teddy. "Thanks," she said sheepishly. "Silly me, I left my underwear on the bed when I went for the shower." Her pink complexion darkened to crimson.

The doorbell rang again.

Relieved at the welcome interruption and hopeful that it might be the Jehovah's Witnesses or something similarly time-consuming, Virgil sprang for the door and opened it.

This person definitely wasn't a J.W.

Virgil's heart sank when he saw the newcomer. "Oh, no…"

Lisa let out a little cry. "Butch!"

Butch took in his wife's and Virgil's various states of undress. His eyes narrowed. "You," he jabbed at the air in Virgil's direction, "are dead meat."

"Let me explain, Butch…" Virgil began back-pedalling. "It's not what…"

A rock-hard fist made painful contact with the bare skin of his shoulder and he spun out onto the bed. He had time to hear Lisa cry: "don't hurt him, Virgil!" before Butch made his second attack.

In idle moments, when Virgil had contemplated his co-workers, he had sometimes wondered if a ninth-dan black belt would be able to subdue someone of Butch's size and bulk.

He was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was easy.

Butch let out a roar, furious to find himself immobilised with such ease. "Let go of me!" He yelled, struggling to release his pinned arms. "I'll kill you, Tancy!" Then he gave a yelp of surprise.

Having no sooner succeeded in defending himself from Butch, Virgil found himself having to save his attacker from a handbag-wielding Grandma. "How dare you hurt my grandson!" she yelled between blows.

"Grandma!" Virgil released Butch and grabbed his grandmother around the waist to pull her off. "Stop that!"

"But he hit you!"

"I'm aware of that!" Still keeping one hand about his Grandma, Virgil rubbed the rising welts on his tender shoulder. "I thought you'd always said that violence never solves anything?"

"No. Well…" Grandma shook herself free and straightened her attire. "I was right."

Lisa was at her husband's side. "Butch," she exclaimed, rubbing his arms. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Virgil was aghast. "Didn't hurt him? What about me?!" He rotated his injured shoulder gingerly.

Butch let out another roar and charged, but was stopped from his attack when Grandma, holding her handbag like a club, stepped in his way. "You leave my boy alone."

"Grandma!" Virgil protested. "I can handle this."

"Nothing happened, Butch." Lisa grasped her husband's hand. "Please believe me," she pleaded as she pulled him away from the Tracys.

"If nothing happened then why are you dressed like that?!" Butch stormed. "And why is that pervert…" he pointed at Virgil.

At that point things started to get loud, incoherent and out of control. Virgil protested that he hadn't touched Lisa. Lisa maintained that it had all been perfectly innocent and begged for Butch to believe her. Butch threatened Virgil with bodily harm in numerous painful ways. And Grandma asserted her position that if one hair of her grandson's head was harmed, then Butch would have more than a handbag to deal with.

Eventually it all got too much. Virgil turned up the volume on his keyboard and leant on several keys. The discordant sound got everyone's attention and earned their eardrums a momentary respite.

"Right!" Virgil said, taking a deep breath. "Butch… How did you know Lisa was here?"

His arm held tightly by a wide-eyed Lisa, Butch glared at him. "Rita told me."

"And did she tell you why?"

"She said Lisa had been sick." Butch looked at his wife, and with a gesture of such tenderness that Virgil wouldn't have thought possible, caressed his wife's face. She smiled up at him.

"Right," Virgil agreed. "And I had to go out, so I told Lisa to sleep in the bed until she felt well enough to go home."

"Your bed!" Butch snarled. "And what else did you suggest you two do in there?"

"Nothing! I've been out all day!" Virgil reiterated. "I left ten minutes after Lisa arrived here, got home five minutes before Grandma turned up, and you arrived five minutes after that!"

"True," Grandma confirmed.

"We never had time to do anything!"

"Then where's your shirt?" Butch demanded.

"Here!" Keeping a wide distance between himself and the Crumps, Virgil retrieved the shirt from the floor by the laundry basket. "I'm doing a first aid course and I got fake blood all over it. See!"

There was a thud as Butch Crump hit the floor.

"Oh!" Just as quickly Lisa dropped to her knees by her husband's side. "He can't stand the sight of blood."

"But it's not real," Virgil sighed. Concerned by his close proximity to the big man, he rolled Butch into the recovery position, and then stood back to allow him to recover.

"Are you all right, Honey?" Lisa asked, stroking her husband's cheek fondly.

"Wha…" Butch realised that he'd fainted and, glowering at Virgil, got back to his feet. "What happ'n'd to your shirt?" he asked again, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had happened to him.

"It got covered in bl… stuff at my first aid course," Virgil repeated. "So I took it off to wash it. I swear that at that point I hadn't even realised that Lisa was still here, let alone in the shower."

"He's telling the truth, Butch," Lisa said. "Virgil's been a perfect gentleman, and you know I'd never do anything behind your back. I love _you_, Butch Crump!" She punctuated the statement with a kiss. "And don't you forget it."

Butch appeared to melt. "I know." He hung his head like a little boy.

Grandma Tracy appeared to decide that it was time for her to take charge. "Since that's settled you had better get some clothes on, young lady." She fixed Lisa with a stern gaze.

Lisa nodded like an abashed school girl, gave Butch a peck on the cheek, gathered up her mislaid undergarments, and disappeared back into the bathroom.

"Virgil."

"Yes, Grandma?"

"Put a shirt on."

"Yes, Grandma."

"And make us all some coffee."

"Yes, Grandma."

"And you…" Grandma pointed a gnarled finger at Butch. "Sit down." Butch sat on Virgil's crumpled bed, which groaned in complaint. Grandma chose a more comfortable chair. "What is your name?"

The big man pulled himself up to his full seated height. "Butch!" he said with obvious pride.

"Nonsense!" She retorted and Virgil cringed into the inside of his shirt, as he pulled it over his head. "Now, what is your real name?"

"Ev'ryone calls me Butch." Butch glanced at Virgil who, tucking his shirt in, hurried past into the kitchenette.

"I'm sure your mother doesn't," Grandma asserted. "What name did she give you?"

Butch hung his head and mumbled something.

"I didn't hear you."

"Nope. Not gonna tell ya." Butch pressed his lips together, looked away, and refused to speak. He looked like a big, ugly, obstinate child.

"I don't accept that behaviour from my grandsons, and I won't accept it from you," Grandma threatened. "This is your last warning."

Virgil, adding a double dose of coffee into Butch's cup, wondered if his grandmother realised what she was doing. That tone of voice was enough to send him and his brothers (not to mention their father) into self-preservation mode, but he doubted it would have the same effect on a total stranger.

Grandma folded her arms and looked at Butch in displeasure. "I'm waiting."

Butch hung his head. "Cyril," he admitted.

"Cyril!"

Grandma turned her steely-eyed look on her grandson. "People have many reasons for not wanting to be called by their birth name, Virgil," she said pointedly.

"Sorry." Seeking to make amends Virgil offered a confidence of his own. "I can understand you wanting something different. I don't know how many times over the years I would have liked to have chucked the name 'Virgil' into a furnace."

Grandma glared at him before turning back to Butch. "You can call me…" Virgil felt a moment's anxiety. "…Mrs T."

Virgil thanked his lucky stars that he had such a wonderful grandmother and he gave her a mug of coffee. Then he handed the second, stronger brew, to Butch.

Butch tasted his drink. "Need more coffee," he said handing the mug back. Virgil retreated into the kitchenette, fuming that he'd been relegated to the role of barista in his own home. He added two more shots of caffeine.

"Now, Cyril," Grandma began. "You obviously love Lisa."

Butch's face took on the soppy appearance of a basset hound puppy. "Yeah."

"And she clearly loves you. But you're going to push her away if you carry on like this. A woman can't live in a relationship where her husband doesn't trust her."

"Don't want to lose her," Butch whined.

"Then trust her," Grandma said. "Every long lasting, loving, relationship is based on trust."

The door to the bathroom opened and, looking fresher, but unsure whether she was welcome, Lisa stepped out. "Um… You wouldn't happen to have a hair dryer, would you, Virgil…?" He stared at her. "No. I guess not."

Virgil got her another towel to wrap around her hair.

Grandma smiled up at him. "Weren't you going to the supermarket, Honey?"

"What…?" Virgil handed Lisa a cup of coffee. "Uh… Yeah… Yes, I was."

"Good. That will take you a couple of hours, won't it? Then I can make the four of us dinner when you get back."

"Right…" Virgil agreed, not enamoured with the suggestion. "Do you want anything in particular?"

Grandma pulled a notebook out of her bag and made a few notes. "There. That will do it."

Virgil read the paper, glad that he wasn't relying on his ACE new employee's salary to survive. "Right… I'll be back soon."

"Take your time, Dear."

"Okay." Virgil grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. "Who lives here anyway?" he muttered as he strode out to his car. "I've been kicked out of my own house!"

Exactly two hours later, having stopped off at an amused Bruce's to kill some time, he was back. He was about to go inside when he realised that there was a hot red car standing a few metres from the gate. He took a minute to admire it, before grabbing armloads of groceries and heading for his front door.

He hesitated before entering. Should he knock first? Why? It was his house after all. But Grandma had clearly wanted him out of the way while she did her spot of marriage counselling. He gave an exasperated sigh and tapped on the door with his elbow.

After a moment's delay, it slid open to reveal Grandma Tracy. "Did you forget your key, Honey?"

"No," Virgil bluffed. "My hands are full."

"Good. Let me help you with those." Grandma took a bag and headed for the kitchenette.

"Let me, Mrs T." Butch was up off the sofa on which he and Lisa had been relaxing.

"Why thank you, Cyril."

Butch grabbed the bag and dumped it on the kitchen counter. Something cracked.

Virgil was glad to see that not only had his bed been abandoned, but that in his absence it had been made with clean sheets. The sight of it mollified his temper a little. "What can I do to help, Grandma?"

"Oh! Do let me, Virgil," Lisa begged, leaping to her feet. "It's the least I can do after all the trouble I've been. You boys can sit and talk."

Virgil had never been convinced that Butch would be able to hold down his end of a conversation, but the pair of them shared an amicable exchange until the meal was ready.

They squashed up around the small table to eat the meal and afterward the Crumps offered to do the dishes. Wary of Butch's ability to hand crockery with care and mindful of his full dishwasher, Virgil put his foot down and insisted that they had done enough. They thanked him for his hospitality, Butch nearly breaking his arm with the handshake, embraced Grandma Tracy warmly, and walked out of the apartment arm-in-arm.

With a sigh of relief Virgil shut the door behind them.

There was a roar outside.

Virgil made a dash for the window and was just in time to see Lisa and Butch disappear in the red car. "That's his?!"

"What's his?" Grandma arrived at his shoulder too late to see the metal beast.

"The Red-Arrow Sportster!" Virgil enthused. "That's a classic! Six cylinders, 300 cubic inch V-8… I wish I could get a look at that engine…" his voice tapered off when he saw her amused face. "Sorry." He opened his arms wide in greeting. "Good to see you, Grandma."

Grandma chuckled as they hugged. "Let's get these dishes done."

"Uh… I'll do that; you put your feet up."

"If you're worried that I'll see the contents of your dishwasher then you're too late. I've already put one load through."

"Oh…" Virgil hung his head as Butch had earlier. "Sorry," he apologised again. "I thought I was going to be the only one here tonight… Not kicked out of my home."

She tutted and then, seeing his crestfallen face, gave him an affectionate kiss. "Come on. The sooner we get that chore finished, the sooner we can have a little chat."

The dishes were done in quick time and then they retired to the sofa with a drink. "How's work?" Grandma asked.

"I feel as if I'm in a holding pattern until we start International Rescue," Virgil admitted. "But it's getting better. I'm more accepted by my colleagues and they've stopped thinking of me as the new upstart who muscled his way in on his fancy diploma."

"Well, that's something. Do you have much to do with Cyril and Lisa?"

Virgil chuckled. "Cyril! Can you imagine anyone less like a Cyril?"

"Under all that bravado he is a very nice boy," Grandma smiled. "However I will admit that they are an unlikely pair. What does she see in him?"

"Dunno. I haven't had much to do with them at work. Butch introduced himself to me on my first day by warning me off her, and she wasn't even at work that week. She was on a welding course."

Grandma gave him a sideways look. "A welding course?"

Virgil held up his hand in a three fingered salute. "Scouts honour! She's the best welder at ACE." Grandma shook her head in disbelief. "I didn't know they knew where I lived."

Grandma clucked her tongue. "I hope my little talk did some good."

"If nothing else, you saved my neck."

"You would have been all right. I was very impressed with the way you handled him."

Virgil laughed. "Not as impressive as you were with that handbag, Grandma. Maybe you should give Lady Penelope lessons."

"I'm sure that girl can handle herself."

Virgil nodded, remembering Scott's bout with the formidable aristocrat. "I think she can."

"Have you heard anything from John about Tracey and the baby?" Grandma asked in her _I'm pretending to be unconcerned, but I'm dying to know what's_ _going on _voice.

"No. I haven't heard from John since he left for the space station. It's only been a week; I guess he's still settling in."

Grandma frowned. "Have you emailed him?"

"I don't know if he can get emails."

"Why, yes he can. We've been corresponding daily." Virgil's face must have told a story, because Grandma continued speaking. "Haven't you received anything?"

"No, nothing… Maybe they got lost in the ether somewhere… Beamed out to space instead of to Earth."

"I don't see why they should, you know John's always very careful with his communications. He's been in contact with your father and your brothers, even Gordon. He's phoned me twice." She looked at her grandson closely. "What's wrong, Honey? Have you and John had some kind of fight?"

"No," Virgil said. "Not a fight."

"But something's happened between you."

"We…" Virgil decided that he couldn't discuss that phone call in detail, not even with his grandma. "We had a discussion about International Rescue."

"What kind of discussion?"

"An unusual one."

"How do you mean unusual?"

Virgil took her hands in his. "Please don't ask me, Grandma," he begged. "Father knows and that's enough. John and I will sort it out eventually."

"Your father knows…? Is that why he's offered us all time to think about whether or not we want to join?"

Virgil thought for a moment before uttering a simple "Yes."

"Does this mean that either you or John doesn't want to belong?"

"Grandma..."

"Oh… All right" Grandma placed her cup on the table. "Talking about International Rescue... That's one reason why I've visited you."

Wary, Virgil looked at her. "To say what?"

"I've decided against joining."

In shock, Virgil stared. "What!"

"I'm too old and my roots are set too deep, to pull everything up and move halfway around the world."

"But… You're not too old!"

"Now, that's sweet of you, but yes, I am. I'm too old to be dragged away from all my friends. I have a life here. I have interests, I belong to organisations. What will I do on Tracy Island?" Grandma caressed his devastated face. "I will visit, you know."

"But you've still got your pilot's licence, haven't you? You can always fly back to the States whenever you want."

"Alone?"

"Why not?" Virgil persisted. "You're perfectly capable of flying anywhere solo."

"Think for a moment, Virgil. I'm all right bunny-hopping above land, but would you really be comfortable with my flying solo over all that ocean?"

"One of us would be glad to take you where ever you want to go," Virgil's stubborn streak was coming to the fore.

"If you're out on a rescue you won't be available. And I don't want to have to rely on others. I value my independence." Grandma sighed. "I thought that you'd understand, Honey. You do understand, don't you?"

Virgil nodded: downcast. "Yes, Grandma." He looked at her. "Having you about full time was one of the things I was looking forward to."

"I know. And I was looking forward to having you all about me again. But it's not practical."

Virgil nodded. "I understand."

"Don't worry about your meals. I think your father's got that in hand."

"He's known about this for a while?"

"I have an idea that he was thinking that I'd be able to sit back and relax. But I don't want to relax. I want to live."

Virgil nodded again, thinking how much like their grandmother John was. "Are you staying at Father's tonight?"

"I was planning too. I'd better get a move on to get things ready."

"Why don't you stay here? You can have my bed and I'll get out the camp stretcher and sleep on that. I can erect a screen across there so you'll have some privacy."

"Are you sure, Virgil? You don't want some old woman cramping your space."

"Believe me; you could never cramp my space."

"I know what you're after," she prodded her grandson playfully in the chest. "You just want to be able to brag to your brothers that you shared your bed with two women today."

"Grandma!"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil sat in the canteen at ACE and thought about the previous night. He and Grandma had talked for a while before she'd finally retired to bed. Once he was alone Virgil had taken the opportunity to try to compose an email to John.

It hadn't been easy.

_Dear John_, it had begun. _I hope that you are well. We are all missing you._ Then there'd been a lot of thought before Virgil added. _Are you enjoying yourself?_ More thought. _Have you discovered anything interesting? _He'd carried on like this writing something, before deciding that it sounded lame and deleting it, getting more and more frustrated, and eventually hitting the send button when he'd meant to save.

Virgil grimaced. It was hardly an expression of brotherly love.

"What's the matter?" Bruce asked, seeing his friend's expression. "Thinking about the one that got away?" He leered across the table at Virgil.

"Just thinking about last night," Virgil admitted. "I was trying to send an email to John and I made a real mess of it."

"Did you tell him about what happened yesterday?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. I didn't think he'd be interested."

"Not interested! The bragging rights you've scored just by having Lisa Crump in your house! There's not a guy here who doesn't dream about her sleeping in their bed… Except for Winston, of course. He probably dreams about you sleeping in his."

"What!"

Bruce laughed at Virgil's indignant expression. "Relax, I'm joking."

Something powerful hit Virgil between the shoulder-blades, causing him to spill much of his coffee into Bruce's lap. "Hiya, Buddy!"

Trying not to wince in pain, Virgil looked upwards. "Hi, Butch."

"You're a great guy. I just wanted you to know that my wife can sleep in your bed any time." Butch's voice was like the rest of him: big, and Virgil cringed as every pair of eyes in the canteen turned to look at them. Bruce, trying to remove scalding coffee from his overalls, snickered.

"Ah… Butch," Virgil began. "You might like to rephrase that."

"What?" The big man looked bemused, before a goofy grin broke out over his face. "Oh, yeah." He scowled at the rest of the room's occupants. "My wife's not like that," he informed the assembly. "And my pal here," Virgil received another slap on the back, nearly dissecting him against the edge of the table, "isn't interested in that kind of thing."

Virgil reached up and grabbed Butch's sleeve and, ignoring Bruce's expression of horror, pulled him down into the seat next to him. "Sit down before you make things even worse, and tell us about that Red-Arrow. It's not yours, is it?"

"Yep!" Butch puffed himself out in pride. "She's mine."

"She's beautiful! How come you never bring her to work?"

"D'ya think I'd let these meatheads get their hands on her? 'Cept you of course, Pal." Virgil submitted to a bruising but friendly punch on the arm.

"Red-Arrow?" Bruce asked. "What are we talking about?"

"Butch's Red-Arrow Sportster," Virgil exclaimed. "You should hear her roar."

Butch had been ferreting about in his wallet. "Here y'are," he said holding out a photograph. The photograph was of Lisa, wearing next to nothing, lying provocatively on the gleaming red automobile and it book both Virgil and Bruce a moment to drag their attention back to the car.

"You don't carry that photo around with you, do you?" Lisa Crump sighed, having walked up behind them.

"Course I do," her husband bragged. "That picha's of my two best girls."

Lisa gave him an indulgent smile and took the remaining seat at the table. "How's your grandmother, Virgil?"

"She's fine. She's flying home today, but she told me to send both of you her best."

"What time is she heading out?" Lisa asked.

Virgil shrugged. "It depends on if she decides to do anything in town before she leaves. She flies her own plane."

Lisa stared at him. "She does?"

"Yep. When you're stuck in the middle of Kansas, you've got to be able to escape somehow."

"Amazing," Lisa breathed.

"Mrs T's a great lady," Butch stated. "She's a great cook too. I like her."

Virgil found himself agreeing with him. "She stayed the night and cooked me breakfast. I haven't eaten so well in weeks!"

Bruce sniggered. "You've been superseded, Lisa. You'd no sooner left when Virgie here goes and gets another woman to keep his bed warm."

Lisa blushed as Virgil glared at his friend.

Butch laughed: a rich baritone.

"Anyway, Boys," Lisa said to Virgil and Bruce. "You're both with me this week. We're going to be using the new welder."

The prospect brightened Virgil's day.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

They'd spent the first half of the week working on creating panels for Barrett Ltd, aka Thunderbird Five, and when Virgil reported to Lisa for work after lunch on Wednesday she was examining some gauges. "We're running low on dehydroidizine," she mused. "We'd better top the welder up."

"What does the dehydroidizine do?" Bruce asked.

"It's a dehydration agent. Keeps the surface of whatever you're welding dry to ensure a clean weld. It goes into that compartment there." Lisa pointed at a container that was suspended at about waist level on the welder. "It's drip fed through that tube into there," she pointed through a clear window, "to where the welding nozzle is situated." She pulled on a pair of chemical-resistant gloves, opened a nearby canister and removed a bag filled with liquid.

"Looks like a tasty cocktail," Bruce commented upon seeing the scarlet skull and cross bone symbols on the yellow packaging.

"It dehydrates the body on contact with the skin, doesn't it?" Virgil said, trying to recollect what he'd learnt at Denver.

"Yes," Lisa confirmed. "Get it into your eyes or nose or swallow it and you're singing with the angels. "That's why the welding nozzle on this machine is behind this protective screen and you never open the bag when you load the dehydroidizine. You only have to slide it, bag and all, into the tank. When you start the machine up the bottom of the bag is perforated allowing the liquid to escape. Would you open the lid for me, Virgil? It's the switch under the cover."

"Sure." Virgil pulled a catch down, lifted the protective cover, and flicked the switch. The lid over the dehydroidizine tank swung upwards.

"Thanks." Lisa positioned the bag over the mouth of the tank. "Stand back, boys. There's little risk, but it's better to be safe than sorry…"

What occurred next happened so fast that the three of them had no time to react. The dehydroidizine bag ruptured and Lisa, still holding the bag, received a face full of toxic liquid. She collapsed faster than Butch's Red-Arrow.

"Lisa!" Both Bruce and Virgil converged on the stricken woman. "Get the trauma kit," Bruce ordered.

"Right!" Virgil raced across to one of the many first aid posts. He pulled the first aid kit from the wall, setting a chain of events into action. A siren sounded, a call was put through to the ambulance services, the doctor was summonsed, an 'emergency situation' map appeared on all computers in the plant, all power was cut and emergency lighting switched on, and the crucible furnace began its inexorable cooling down process.

Taking care not to touch his workmate any more than necessary, Bruce was doing the initial check of her condition. "Lisa! Can you hear me?" he yelled, rocking her by her uncontaminated hip.

"Any response?" Virgil asked as he returned.

"No. Hand me a pair of those chem. gloves, would you?" Virgil obeyed and pulled a pair onto his own hands.

As he followed Bruce's example and reached into the trauma box to pull out a phial of saline solution, Virgil became aware that a crowd was gathering. He snapped off the end of the phial and started rinsing the toxin off Lisa's drying skin.

"Keep back," someone ordered, forcing the crowd back from the scene of the emergency. "Keep back and that's an order!" It was Max Watts.

"Lisa!" There was a howl of anguish from the back of the crowd and Butch bulldozed his way through. "Lisa!"

"Butch! Wait!" Virgil jumped to his feet, grabbed the big man by the shoulders and held him back. "We're looking after her…"

"But look at her…"

"I know…" Virgil thought briefly. "We need your help."

"Doin' what?" Virgil saw a pleading intensity in the other man's eyes. "I wantta help. I've gotta help!"

"Sit by her head," Virgil instructed. "Talk to her. Tell her she's going to be okay."

"Can she hear me?"

"I don't know," Virgil admitted. "But if she can, she needs to know you're here. But don't touch her or the liquid! Okay?"

Butch sniffed. "Okay."

Lisa's face appeared to have aged about fifty years. The skin that had been so pale, clear and healthy was now grey, wrinkled and drawn. Her eyes were sunken in her head and her husband choked back a sob as he knelt by her side. "I'm here, Leece. I'm here, Honey. Don't worry, you're gonna be okay."

Virgil snapped another phial of saline open.

"Do you know what happens in cases of severe dehydration?" Bruce asked.

"Hypovolemic shock," Virgil replied. "Physical collapse."

"Liesl," Butch moaned. "My Liesl," and then, surprisingly, he started to croon a song into his wife's ear.

Bruce trickled saline down Lisa's cheek. "Her breathing's already becoming shallower. But if she arrests and is without oxygen for too long we're not going to be able to start artificial respiration. Not with all this muck on her face."

"Hopefully she'll have enough oxygen in her lungs to carry her through until the professionals arrive."

"I'm going to check her temperature." Bruce reached into the trauma kit and pulled out a thermometer. "Where's that doctor?!" He cut an overall sleeve away and thrust a thermometer into Lisa's armpit. "39 degrees Celsius!"

"That's a huge increase from 36.8!" Virgil exclaimed.

"And it's still climbing."

"Liesl," Butch intoned.

"She's arrested!" Bruce yelled.

"No!" Butch bellowed. "You've gotta do something! Lisa!"

"I'm starting chest compressions."

"Lisa," Butch begged. "Stay wi' me, Lisa!"

It was a sound of anguish that chilled Virgil's bones. "Keep talking to her, Butch," he urged. "Sing to her!"

"But she can't hear me!"

"Maybe she can. Here…" Virgil thrust some saline into Butch's hand. Rinse the dehydroidizine off. Don't let it run into her mouth, nose, eyes or ears. Okay?"

"Okay," Butch sniffed; then he pointed at Bruce. "What's he doin'!"

Bruce had retrieved the scissors from out of the trauma kit and was cutting down the front of Lisa's overalls exposing first a t-shirt, then a bra, both of which were discarded. "Sorry, Lisa," he apologised to the unconscious woman, before he whipping off his soiled gloves and replacing them with clean dry ones.

"But… But… Why're you… you exposin' her?" Butch stammered and Bruce went to work on Lisa's chest.

"He's got to do CPR," Virgil explained. "With no clothing there's nothing to impede what he's doing. And there's less chance of him spreading dehydroidizine about. It's for the best."

"What'z'er temperature?" Bruce puffed between compressions.

Grabbing the scissors Virgil slit open Lisa's other sleeve exposing her arm. She was now completely devoid of clothing from the waist up, a fact that was lost on the men working on her.

Virgil looked at the thermometer. "Still climbing." He pinched the skin of her arm and instead of springing back into place, it remained puckered. "She's really dehydrated. We've got to get fluids into her." A memory surfaced. "Can you keep going for a bit, Bruce?"

"Yep."

Virgil was on his feet and, pushing bodies out of his way without care, running for the locker room. "Outta my way," he ordered one individual who, with his back to the action, didn't see him coming.

He barrelled into the locker room, unlocked his locker, yanked open the door, and pulled a bag out. Then, without bothering to secure his belongings, he ran out the door and back to the huddle of people.

He was dimly aware of Hamish Mickelson stepping out of his way as he pushed his way through.

"Whatcha got?" Bruce asked, his rhythmic compressions never wavering.

"Saline IVs," Virgil replied.

"What?!"

Virgil readied the needle. "I've never done this on a living person before." He tried to find a vein. "She's too dehydrated!"

"You need a something to raise the vein."

"I know," Virgil was delving into the trauma kit to find something suitable. His fingers closed about an elastic bandage. "Butch! Wrap that around her upper arm and pull tight." Butch, by now so in shock that he was acting without conscious thought, obeyed and the vein in the crook of Lisa's elbow was raised enough so that Virgil was able to see it. Praying that he was doing everything correctly, he inserted the needle. "Okay, Butch. You can release the bandage." Numbly the big man obeyed. "Are you doing okay, Pal?" Butch nodded.

Amazingly, for such a short space of time, the saline bag was nearly empty. Virgil readied a replacement. "This seems to be working."

"Good." Bruce was starting to flag.

"Want me to take over?" Virgil offered.

"Bag's nearly empty," Butch gulped.

"I'm okay," Bruce said, getting his second wind. "You keep feeding her that IV."

It seemed like hours before there was a commotion at the back of the crowd, which parted to admit the paramedics. They gave Lisa a quick once over before one of them spoke. "Right, Guys. You've done a good job, but we'll take over now."

It was with relief that Bruce and Virgil fell back and allowed the professionals to do their job. An ambulance officer approached them. "Can you describe to me exactly what happened?"

Between them they recounted the afternoon's drama as Lisa was stabilised, attached to various bits of equipment and then transferred to a stretcher. By the time she was wheeled out of the factory, accompanied by Butch, they'd finished recounting their tale.

Excitement over: they retreated to the locker room. Virgil stared in dismay at his locker, the contents of which were scattered over the floor. "I thought I'd only removed the bag."

"What were you doing with IV bags in your locker?" Bruce asked as he helped clear up.

"I bought them for practise for my first aid course," Virgil explained.

"What were you going to practise on?"

"I've got a mannequin at home. It gave Grandma a heck of a fright when she opened the cupboard door and found him standing there." He slammed the locker shut.

"I'll bet," Bruce chuckled and then collapsed onto the seat. "I hope I never have to deal with anything like that again."

Virgil made no comment. His International Rescue work would probably mean that life and death situations 'like that' would be a regular occurrence. "I hope Lisa's going to be okay."

They were both still sitting there, drained, when their workmates found them. For the next ten minutes they endured congratulations and pats on the backs.

"Nice one, Guys," Louis acknowledged. "That must have been quite an experience, Buzz."

"Yeah," Bruce conceded. "It was."

"Lisa Crump topless under your fingertips. What was it like?"

Bruce gave him a disgusted looked. "Oh, grow up, Lou."

"But that was every guy's dream! You must have felt something… apart from the obvious." He leered down at his colleague.

Bruce fixed him with a baleful glare. "I didn't think that it was Lisa. I didn't think about what state her clothes were in. All I thought was that I had to do everything I could to keep her alive."

"But surely…"

"But surely you can show the poor girl a bit of respect!" Bruce snapped. "She nearly died! She may yet…" his voice broke. "Get outta here, Louis!"

"Uh, okay," not really understanding Louis frowned. "Catch you guys later. Ol' Micky's given us the rest of the day off." He grabbed his coat and bag from his locker and jogged from the room leaving his two workmates alone.

"Good." Bruce sighed and, closing his eyes, rested his head against his locker. "I don't think I could face work again today."

"Me neither," Virgil agreed. "Are you okay?"

Bruce opened his eyes and looked at him. "I think I'm in shock. How about you?"

"Me too," Virgil agreed. "Now that the excitement's over I'm getting a case of the shakes."

"Tell me about it." Bruce held out a quivering hand.

Max Watts entered the room. "Tancy!"

Virgil struggled to his feet. "Yes, Mr Watts?"

"Do you know what you did out there today?!"

Virgil felt his heckles start to rise. What he'd done was help save a woman's life! He hoped…

Watts glared at him, his displeasure clearly evident. "You are NOT an authorised first aider. You initiated a costly shut down of the plant including the crucible furnace. AND you pushed Mr Mickelson out of the way with no regard for his position in the company!"

With an effort, Virgil managed to control his temper. "I'm sorry, Mr Watts. I just did what I thought was necessary. I wasn't aware of who I was pushing when I ran for my bag."

"We were on the scene so we did what we had to, Mr Watts," Bruce protested. "I'm sure you realise that Virgil was only doing what he could to help. And if it hadn't been for Virgil's saline IV…"

"Be quiet, Sanders," Watts interrupted. "I've thought of a suitable punishment for your actions, Tancy! And I am going to go straight to Mr Mickelson to demand…" by now Virgil was quivering with rage instead of shock, "that he revoke your 'Final Warning'."

Virgil, ready to tell his superior exactly what he thought of him, felt as if he'd just been doused by a bucket of iced water. "What?!" he asked unsure if he'd heard correctly.

Hamish Mickelson bustled into the room. "Ah, good. I wanted to catch the pair of you before you went home. Well done, boys."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I've just got off the phone from the hospital. Lisa's in intensive care and I'm heading off there now to go and sit with Butch, but I had to offer Jeff Tracy's and ACE's thanks before I left."

"If I may have a word, Mr Mickelson," Watts said. "I would like to recommend the revocation of Tancy's 'Final Warning'."

Mickelson smiled. "Good idea, Max. I think he's earned it." He turned to Bruce. "I'm sure we can think of a suitable reward for you too, Mr Sanders."

"Uh… There's no need, Mr Mickelson. After all," Bruce managed to revive his cheeky grin, "that's what you pay me the first aider's allowance for."

"Nevertheless, I think you both deserve some kind of formal recognition."

Watts' demeanour had softened so much that he was barely recognisable as the blustering man who had entered the locker room. "I'm sure that when Mr Tracy hears of your actions, you will be suitably rewarded."

"Uh…" shocked by the change in his supervisor's behaviour, Virgil felt his legs give out on him and he sat down heavily on the seat. "Ah… Thanks."

Mickelson frowned down at him in concern. "Are you all right, Virgil?"

"Yes, Unc… ah, Mr Mickelson. It's just been an 'interesting' day."

"Well, take care of yourself, both of you," Watts said. "I expect you to be back at work tomorrow."

"I'm afraid we won't be operational tomorrow, Max," Hamish Mickelson explained. "Mr Tracy and the dehydroidizine people want to ensure that this type of accident doesn't happen again and a full investigation will take place tomorrow." He turned back to his two employees. "I'm afraid the investigative team will want a full report from each of you."

"Yes, Sir."

"If you'll excuse me, Mr Mickelson, I want to supervise the furnace shut down," Mr Watts said, and departed the locker room.

"I've rung and told Edna, my wife, to tell her what happened and that I'll probably be late home, and she's offered to cook a special dinner in honour of the pair of you. Are you available tonight? Mr Sanders? Mr, erm, Tancy?"

"Bruce knows who I am, Uncle Hamish."

Hamish Mickelson chuckled. "All right then. Would you like to come to dinner, 'Mr Tracy'? Edna thinks you've been ignoring us."

The thought of one of Edna Mickelson's meals was irresistible. "Yes, please. How about you, Bruce? You said you had nothing on tonight."

"Yes… ah… I mean no… I mean… Thank you, Sir."

"Good," Mickelson's smile broadened. "We'll make it 7.30. Hopefully I'll be finished here by then. Virgil knows how to get to my place, so I'll leave him to give you directions, Mr Sanders."

"I'll pick you up, Bruce," Virgil offered. "Just in case that rust-bucket of yours refuses to start." He received a baleful glare in reply.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil knocked and had to wait until the door was opened revealing Bruce, unexpectedly dressed in formal attire.

Virgil, wearing neat but casual, laughed. "You've never struck me as a suit and tie man."

"We're going to the boss's house," Bruce moaned. "How else am I supposed to dress?"

"Comfortably. Leave the jacket and tie at home if you want. Uncle Hamish and Aunt Edna won't mind."

"I can't get used to you calling Ol' Micky 'Uncle Hamish'." Bruce hung his jacket on a hook and draped his tie over the top. He loosened his collar. "How do I look?"

"Why are you worried?"

"We're going to the boss's house," Bruce repeated. "I wish you hadn't remembered that I was free tonight."

"Why?" Virgil asked, surprised.

"Because we're…"

"…Going to the boss's house," Virgil finished for him. "Trust me. They're a great couple when he's away from work, and if you missed this chance of trying Aunt Edna's cooking, you'll never forgive yourself."

"I'm sure I'd manage to survive… Why don't you say I'm sick, or something? Say I got some dehydroidizine on me and I've shrivelled up like a prune!"

"You should know by now that I'm no good at lying, and they both know me well enough to know when I'm not telling the truth." Virgil looked at his watch. "Come on, Bruce. We don't want to be late. Aunt Edna would not be happy if we let her meal burn."

They needn't have worried. Hamish Mickelson met them at the door and escorted them into the lounge where they were joined by a short, motherly woman. "Virgil! It's about time you came to visit."

Virgil greeted her with an affectionate embrace. "Hi, Aunt Edna. You're looking…" he sniffed the air, which was filled with warm, aromatic odours, "and smelling, great."

"Well, try not to drool all over the furniture," Edna replied with obvious fondness. "Dinner won't be ready for another half hour. And you must be Bruce," she said to the other young man.

"Yes, that's right, Mrs Mickelson," he replied.

"Tonight's a social occasion and a celebration," she tutted. "You can call me 'Aunt Edna' like Virgil does."

Though still nervous Bruce managed a smile. "Thank you… Aunt Edna."

She laughed. "Excuse me while I get back to my pots and pans. Hamish will get you a drink."

"What can I get you, gentlemen?" her husband asked. They'd made their selections before the doorbell rang. "Ah!" Hamish's face lit up. "Please, excuse me."

"Is that 'Aunt Edna's' secret to her cooking?" Bruce whispered. "They order in pizza?" Virgil laughed.

Through the partially closed door they could hear two male voices; Hamish first. "Glad you could make it," Hamish said.

"I had to at least try to make the effort," the other replied. "Any excuse to taste Edna's cooking."

Bruce saw Virgil's face light up and he groaned. "It's not… Is it?"

Virgil nodded. "Yep. It's Father."

Bruce leant close. "Then help me get out of here!"

Virgil frowned. "Why?"

"Because that's Jeff Tracy!"

"That's my father."

"That's our boss!"

"_That's_ my father."

"He's one of the richest men in the world!"

"And he's my father!"

"He's famous… He's been to the moon… He's…"

"Bruce," Virgil said, trying to be patient. "He's my father. He's just an ordinary man."

"No, he's not. He's…"

The door opened and the two young men scrambled to their feet as a beaming Jeff Tracy, followed by his mother and Hamish Mickelson entered the room. "Ah! Here are our two heroes!"

Virgil crossed over to give him a warm greeting. "This is a surprise. Uncle Hamish didn't tell us you were coming." When Jeff hesitated, he grinned. "Don't worry. Bruce knows our relationship."

"Thank heavens for that. I wasn't looking forward to spending the evening pretending I don't know you."

Virgil grimaced. "I won't say that you get used to it."

"Well let's not worry about that now." Jeff gave his son an affectionate punch on the shoulder, managing to strike the spot that Butch had hit with less restraint days earlier. "When you said you wanted to work at ACE to get some practical experience, I didn't realise that this was what you had in mind."

Virgil rubbed his shoulder and laughed. Grandma tittered, Hamish chortled and Bruce, unaware of the hidden meaning behind the remark and wanting to please his employer, chuckled.

"Tonight's supposed to be a celebration," Jeff continued, "so let's forget work and celebrate. I've brought the champagne and your grandmother brought herself. I 'picked her up at the hospital'."

"Picked you up at the hospital?" Virgil hugged his grandmother. "He makes you sound like some kind of germ." He grinned. "You're my kind of bug."

She gave him an affectionate slap. "Sweet talker."

"Bruce," Jeff approached the nervous young man, his hand outstretched in greeting. "Well done. I'm glad to see that ACE employs such capable people."

"Thank you, Mr Tracy."

"I don't think you've met my mother."

"Hello, Bruce."

"Hello, Mrs Tracy."

"You can call me 'Mrs T'. Butch does. And it saves remembering everybody's relationship, or not, to each other."

Edna entered the room, wiping her hands on her apron. "Good. We're all here." She greeted the Tracys warmly. "Lovely to see you again, Jeff. It's been too long."

"You too, Edna." Jeff gave her an affectionate hug. "What's on the menu tonight?"

"Just you wait," she teased. "It won't be ready for another fifteen minutes."

"Can I help, Edna?" Mrs Tracy asked.

"Thanks for the offer, but everything's under control. You sit and relax after your flight." Edna bustled out of the lounge.

"What do you mean that you 'picked Grandma up at the hospital?" Virgil asked as he reclaimed his chair.

Jeff ordered his drink and relaxed into an easy chair. "We both wanted to check up on Lisa, but we didn't want to 'break your cover'. So Grandma went in first, saying that she'd heard about the accident from you." Virgil glanced at his grandmother. Under normal circumstances she didn't hold with lying and he hadn't been in contact since she'd left his place on Monday. "I waited in the car for a few minutes and then went in myself."

"Butch was very pleased and flattered to see the both of us," Grandma added. "And he was such a gentleman. He graciously introduced his employer to his friend's mother. I must say that it was most fortunate that your employer turned up at the hospital at the same time that I did, Virgil." She gave a wink. "He was able to give me a ride to the Mickelsons'. Much easier than taking a taxi." She gave a dramatic sigh. "Mr Tracy is such a gentleman. It's his maternal upbringing, of course."

"Of course," Virgil laughed.

"Butch is very worried about Lisa," Jeff admitted. "He refuses to leave her side, he's constantly in the medical staff's way, and he glares at anyone who gets near her."

Virgil sat forward. "How is she?"

"They've moved her out of Intensive Care and into the High Dependency Unit and are going to keep her sedated until they're sure there's no organ damage. She's getting the best possible treatment and I've told them to send the bill to me to make sure it stays that way... But that poor husband of hers is a mess… and he's intimidating the staff."

"I thought he was a big pussycat," Grandma stated.

Virgil grinned. "That's because you know how to pat him the right way, Grandma… With your handbag."

"Mother?"

"Never you mind, Jeff. Virgil's teasing."

Jeff looked at his son with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, yes…?"

Grandma ignored her son's bemused query.

"Butch isn't the brightest bulb in the string," Virgil noted, "but he's no fool. It was agonising to hear him when he thought Lisa was dying, wasn't it, Bruce?

Bruce nodded his agreement. "Yeah. Gave us that extra incentive to help her."

"Well, it's thanks to you two that she's survived." Jeff settled back in the chair. "Now, before we stop discussing ACE all together, let's hear the whole story." Taking it in turns and filling in the blanks for each other where necessary, Virgil and Bruce recollected the drama of earlier in the day. When they reached the moment that disaster struck, Jeff stopped them, looking thoughtful. "You say the bag ruptured?"

"Yes," Virgil confirmed. "She was in the process of getting it into position when I guess she squeezed it slightly. There must have been a weak point in the plastic and the bag's contents sprayed out all over her."

"The irony of it," Bruce added, comfortable participating in what he regarded as a kind of debriefing, "is that she'd only just finished lecturing us on the danger of the stuff. She'd been really careful handling it too, hadn't she, Virgil? She had made sure we were well clear and everything."

"I don't mean this to sound crass," Virgil began, "but did they say if the dehydroidizine is going to leave any lasting physical damage?"

"She's going to have to take care of her skin for a while," Jeff admitted, "but no, they think Lisa Crump will be a beautiful as she ever was."

"That'll please Butch," Virgil said.

"That'll please every male member of staff," Bruce joked and then looked at his employers and Mrs Tracy, turned scarlet, and stared at his hands.

"What I don't understand, Uncle Hamish," Virgil stated. "Is how come Bruce and I were the only ones looking after her? I'm not an authorised first aider."

"We've got four official first aiders on site," Hamish replied. "Two, ironically, are off on a refresher course. One called in sick, and the other is Bruce. Lisa's fortunate that you had the necessary skills."

"And the bags of saline," Bruce added.

"Dinner's ready!" Edna announced. She led them into the dinning room. "Now: Jeff, you can sit there next to Hamish… But no talking shop!" she threatened. "This is your seat between Bruce and Hamish," she indicated to Mrs Tracy, "and…," she hooked her arms through Virgil's and Bruce's, "I'm going to have these two handsome young men on either side of me!"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

As Virgil had predicted, the meal was sublime. He'd watched with interest as, aided by the superb food and champagne, Bruce had gradually relaxed and was enjoying bantering with Jeff and Hamish, as well as flirting with "Mrs T" and Edna Mickelson.

They finished eating and sat back to allow their meal to digest. "Let's not sit in here," Edna suggested. "Why don't we have coffee in the lounge."

"An excellent idea," her husband agreed. "Now you relax," he ordered when he saw her start to collect the plates together. "You've done enough this evening."

"Indeed you have," Jeff agreed. "You've outdone yourself, Edna."

She dimpled at him. "Why, thank you."

To Bruce's surprise, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Virgil and Jeff vacated their seats and started to clear away the table. Thinking that it would be good manners to assist he attempted to stand, but found himself held down in his seat by Edna placing her hand on his arm. "You can stay and chat, Bruce," she teased and her eyes twinkled in the direction of Mrs Tracy who'd drawn her chair close. "You can tell us if Virgil's got a girlfriend…"

Fortunately for Virgil, he was out of earshot from this conversation. "It's been a great evening," he commented to his father. "Bruce nearly didn't want to come."

"He didn't?"

"No," Virgil rinsed some plates and put them into the dishwasher. "He thought it was bad enough that he was going to have to be on his best behaviour while he dined at the boss's house, but when he heard you arrive it was all I could do to stop him from running for his life!"

"Am I that frightening?" Jeff asked.

Virgil chuckled. "I don't think so…" He shut the dishwasher door. "Since I'm your son, can I ask you something to do with ACE, but outside the realm of what someone in my position would normally ask someone in your position?"

"We'll see." Jeff replaced the condiments. "Shoot."

"Why is Max Watts the Production Manager? Why not Greg Harrison? He's worked for you since you started ACE and he's got better people skills."

Jeff thought for a moment. "Okay. I'll answer you as your father, not as your boss. It's because Greg Harrison could no more survive the administration tasks associated with the Production Manager's job than Scott could survive living in Gordon's bathyscaphe. He's happier and I get better value for money with him working out on the shop floor. And don't worry," Jeff added, "he's adequately compensated for his years of service. He earns as much as Max Watts… But I never told you that."

"Understood," Virgil smiled. "Thanks."

"Virgil?" Jeff began, wiping down the bench top. "This probably isn't the right time, but I've got to know. How are things between you and John?"

Some of Virgil's good mood dissipated and he leant against the worktop as he considered his answer. "I honestly don't know. I haven't really spoken to him since that phone call. I didn't even know he could receive emails until Grandma told me last Sunday. After she'd gone to bed I tried to write something and made a mess of it, so I ended up by spending most of the night drawing him a picture and emailing that. I must have fallen into bed at about three a.m. I'd turned off my alarm so it wouldn't disturb Grandma and the next thing I know she's asking me if I'm 'planning on going to work this morning'."

"Has he responded to your email?" Jeff asked.

"No…" Virgil shook his head. "And it's been three days. Maybe he's been too busy."

Bruce had managed to escape the two women without giving away any of his friend's secrets, by offering to help with cleaning up. He saw the two Tracy men deep in conversation and, deciding it was a family conference, withdrew without them noticing his presence.

"He's sent me an email every night," Jeff admitted. "I think he was going to say something to you before he left, but he was interrupted by Tracey."

"Has he said anything to you about her and the baby?"

"No."

Virgil sighed and then gave a wry chuckle. "I thought you said this was going to be a quiet year! So far it's been anything but!"

Jeff barked out a laugh. "I've never admitted to being clairvoyant… I leave that to you and Scott." Virgil rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Come on. Let's go enjoy our coffee."

The other four members of the house party were deep in conversation. "I've just been telling Bruce how everyone in our flight applied to get into the space programme but how you were the only one who made it, Jeff," Hamish admitted. "Who'd you bribe?"

"Bribe?" Jeff smiled as he poured himself a coffee and took a seat. "I couldn't afford to offer bribes in those days. "Not that that stopped the space agency from taking their pound of flesh. I remember my first day there, all the other recruits had some scientific background and there was me, a poor farm boy from Kansas who didn't know anyone else and who's only distinction was that I was good with my hands and I'd managed to survive the Air Force without crashing a plane. I'd had to leave my fiancé behind while I did the initial training and I was feeling very alone. One of the other wannabe astronauts took one look at me and dubbed me 'Arnold' after some character in an old black and white TV series from last century…"

"_Green Acres_," his mother recollected. "Arnold was the name of the pig."

"But what really made me feel that I'd probably made the biggest mistake in my life was when one of the lower echelon brass, who more than likely had had even less education than I did, came up to me and said, _Look 'ere, Tracy. It's bad enough y've got a girl's name, but we can't have ya talkin' to the press like a farm boy. So we're gonna send ya to alleyqueshun lessons._"

Bruce laughed. "Alleyqueshun lessons?"

"That what he called them."

"I remember," Grandma said. "My poor boy rang me up in such a state he was practically crying…"

"I was not. Don't exaggerate, Mother."

She patted her son's hand fondly. "_They want me to change who I am, Ma,_ you said. So I told you to do what ever you felt was right. But that you should remember that you were born a Tracy, you were brought up a Tracy, and you would always be a Tracy. No one could take that from you."

Jeff gave his mother's hand an affectionate squeeze. "So I took their _alleyqueshun_ lessons, but I refused to let them change my name or who I was. And it's a rule I've tried to live by ever since. I haven't always succeeded, but I've tried to remain true to myself and my upbringing."

"Yeah, Bruce," Virgil chuckled. "And if any of us five boys got into trouble, we knew that we'd really overstepped the mark when he'd forget his _alleyqueshun_ lessons and the old Kansas drawl would appear. That was when we knew it was time for the miscreant to start grovelling for forgiveness, while the rest of us made ourselves scarce." His eyes twinkled at his father. "The last time I heard 'Kansas' was on my first day at ACE."

"Don't remind me, Virgil," Jeff growled. "I'll admit that I overstepped the mark."

"Not as much as I did," Hamish Mickelson added. "I'm sorry, Virgil."

"I'm sorry too," Bruce said, and everyone looked at him in surprise. "I'm one of the ones who…"

"Bruce," Virgil interrupted. "You don't have to…"

"It's okay, Virgil. They've been so nice to me this evening that I feel guilty. Mr Tracy… Mr Mickelson… I'm one of the ones who tricked Virgil into sliding down that conveyor. I'm one of the ones who got him into trouble and got him the final warning."

Jeff Tracy and Hamish Mickelson glanced at each other and then at Bruce. "Thank you for telling us that, Mr Sanders," Mickelson said.

"We appreciate your honesty," Jeff added, and he shared another brief glance with his long-time friend. "And in light of the fact that there have been no further events of that nature, your actions today, and your confession tonight, I don't think we need to say any more about it."

Bruce smiled in relief. "Thank you, Mr Tracy." Then he gave a light frown. "Would you mind if I asked you something?"

"Depends what it is," Jeff responded genially.

"I'm the president of the social club. Would you ever consider giving us a talk on your life?"

Jeff appeared surprised. "My life?"

"Yes," Bruce nodded. "Obviously you're an important man to everyone who works at ACE, and we know what's been published about your career as an astronaut and how you started your 'empire', but we'd love to hear about it from you."

Jeff seemed taken aback. "I'm sure you're exaggerating, Bruce, no one would want to listen to me talk. I haven't done the speaking circuit in years and I know Virgil would tell you that I wasn't very good at it." He looked at his son. "Do you remember how my speech began?"

"I should know, I heard it often enough… I hope you haven't had too much dessert, Bruce, because you're about to receive an overdose of saccharine sweetness. Let's see…" Virgil thought for a moment. "_Standing on the moon was the seventh most magical experience in my life. The first was my marriage to my darling wife Lucille, second through to six were the births of my five sons_…"

Jeff smiled. "I'm impressed. Do you remember what came next?"

Virgil grinned. "Nope. I usually started daydreaming at that point. After about the third repetition of the same speech and all the rehearsals it got a bit boring."

Jeff pretended to be miffed as the others laughed. "Charming! So much for familial support."

Grandma giggled. "You could always ask Gordon to do your talk. Remember that time that he had memorised every line and started to recite it along with you?"

"Putting me off," Jeff recollected. "He was word perfect, but a beat before me."

"So you asked him if he wanted to do the speech."

"And the little monkey did! He had every word, every inflection down pat, though I doubt he was old enough to understand most of it. He even answered all the questions correctly… Until someone asked him what his speaking fees were." Jeff chuckled.

Grandma winked at Bruce. "You should ask Gordon to do the talk, he's cheaper than Jeff. He only wanted jelly babies."

Jeff tapped her on the arm. "I wouldn't charge the ACE social club."

"Just as well; they couldn't afford your going rate. Astronauts didn't come cheap."

Jeff continued. "It wasn't until after I'd sat there and had my thunder stolen by my second-youngest son that I finally managed to get a word in."

Grandma laughed. "You said that if anyone wanted a transcript of Gordon's speech you were holding an unused copy."

"He was too young to read and I'm still amazed that he remembered every word," Jeff said. "The whole tour was such a whirlwind that I had trouble remembering what day it was."

"You can blame your blue-eyed boy for putting Gordon up to that stunt," Virgil informed him. "He was the mastermind."

"Well, that leaves you out," Jeff mused. "Which blue-eyed boy?"

"Well… Not wanting to drop him in it… Let's say neither of your golden-haired sons..."

"Scott!?" Jeff's jaw dropped. "You're kidding?"

"Nope. He was as bored with the whole deal as the rest of us were and we were trying to entertain ourselves before we were paraded out in front of your audience. Gordon started mimicking you and Scott told him that he'd buy him a bag of jelly babies if he'd do his trick in front of the crowd."

"Ah," Edna said. "So we can blame Scott for Gordon's love of practical jokes, can we?"

"Involving my family in the space agency's publicity is one area where I wish I hadn't caved in," Jeff admitted. "I realised early on in the tour that it was a major mistake." He looked at Virgil. "It's the principal reason why I've kept you out of the limelight…" His phone rang and he frowned in concern. "This is the phone number I gave the hospital. I hope everything's… Jeff Tracy speaking… Yes, that's right… I see… I don't know if I have that kind of influence over him, but I'll do my best… No, that's fine. I'm glad to help… I'll do something right away… Tha… Yes… Thank you very much. Good bye." He closed his phone. "The medical staff need to treat Lisa, and they want Butch out of the way, but he won't leave her."

"Give me that phone," Grandma held out her hand. "I'll convince him. Have you got the hospital's number?"

"Push reply."

"Thank you." Grandma pushed the appropriate button and waited. "It's ringing…" Someone answered and she, via a convoluted version of phone tag, was passed through to the appropriate ward. "Is that you, Cyril?"

Bruce stared at Virgil and mouthed_ "Cyril?"_ Virgil grinned.

"Hello, Dear, it's Mrs T. Virgil's grandma. I just had to ring to see how poor Lisa is; I'm so worried about her… Is that right…? I'm sure they must have a good reason for wanting you out of the way…" Mrs Tracy listened for a time, making soothing noises, and Virgil was appalled to realise that he could hear the sound of a man crying through the phone's earpiece. "I know she's everything to you... But surely that means that you want the best for her…? You heard that nice Mr Tracy say that he was going to pay for the best treatment, but they can't give her the best treatment if you won't let them… Now calm down, Cyril… Go and have a cup of coffee and something to eat… I'll stay the night in town and I'll come and visit you both tomorrow, and when I get there I want to hear that you have cooperated fully…" Her voice turned stern but loving. "Do you hear me, young man? Good! Then give Lisa a kiss from me, tell her I'll see her in the morning, and let those nice doctors and nurses do what they have to… Good boy… I'll see you tomorrow… Good night, Cyril. Give my love to Lisa." She hung up the phone. "There," she said in satisfaction. "That's that!"

"Mother," Jeff said in wonderment, "you're a marvel."

"I've had to deal with young men all my life," she asserted. "If I can handle you, your father and your sons, then I'm sure I can handle Cyril Crump."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Two hours later and Virgil was back home, glad that he wasn't needed at work tomorrow. It had been an enjoyable evening, but the excitement of the day was beginning to catch up with him. Before he turned in he decided to see if he'd received any messages since he'd last checked.

It was then that he discovered the email…

_To be continued…_


	7. A Quiet Celebration

**7: A Quiet Celebration**

"_To a caring brother and loyal friend,"_ John's email began.

"_That salutation has to have been the hardest line I've ever had to write, Virgil. Harder to compose than anything I've written in my books,"_ Virgil noted the plural. Clearly John had started writing a second. _"This email has been sitting on my computer in draft form since long before I got up here to the space station. I'd sit down, read what I'd already written, think 'what a load of nonsense', re-write it all and then have to save it again when I was called away. I've been trying to think of the words to adequately express the relief I feel that you're my friend, the gratitude for the support that you've given me, and the affection that I have for you. But every phrase I've written has seemed trite, condescending and shallow… It still does, but I don't mean it to be. I mean every word._

"_You've probably been thinking that I don't care any more, that all my bitterness and anger has been unfairly and squarely directly at you, but I want… no, I __**need**__ you to know, that this is not the case. I've been trying to tell you this for the past month. I'd ring you at home, but our lives are so busy at the moment that we never seemed to connect. I know I could have left a message on your voicemail, but I wanted to speak to you personally. It's too late for that now and I know that email is a poor second best, but at this juncture that's all I have available to me. _

_When I received your email on Monday and saw the uncertainty in it I wondered if I'd done irreparable damage to our relationship. But then I received the picture you'd drawn and I knew that you were reaching out to me in the best way you could. It was that then I knew I had to act... But even so it still took me three days to get together something halfway respectable. I'm still not happy with what I've written, but at least it will give you some idea of the shame I feel._

"_I was going to 'bite the bullet' and apologise in front of the whole family at that final goodbye before I came up here, but then Tracey…" _Virgil felt his pulse quicken at the name, hopeful that he would learn something, _"…arrived and I lost the opportunity. As much as I care for her, I couldn't say what needed to be said in front of her… it would have been hard enough to say in front of the rest of our family._

"_And so I've decided that it's time to stop running away from my responsibilities. You deserve an apology and I am going to give you one. It may not be what I envisaged, it may not sound sincere, but I mean it completely. _

"_I am sorry, Virgil. I am sorry for what I said to you. I am sorry for what I said about you. I am sorry for what I said about our family. I am acutely sorry for all the defamatory things I said about Dad. _

"_I didn't mean one word of what I said. I've never felt that way about anyone, especially no one in our family. ( I keep on writing __**my**__ family, but then I have to go back and change it to __**our**__ family, and I wouldn't have it any other way, because I love you as I love them all. You are __**my**__ family and I wouldn't choose to be part of anyone else's.) _

"_I have no real excuse for what I said. At the time it seemed that everything was happening at once, my life was being turned upside-down, and I was losing control. What with my book launch, Tracey's pregnancy,"_ another unanswered allusion, _"my pending flight to the space station, and IR; I was feeling pulled in all directions and that no one was considering me and what I wanted or needed… I suppose that sounds selfish."_

Virgil didn't think it sounded selfish. He thought it sounded like a cry for help.

"_Well, there's no easy way of saying it, so here it is…_

"_Virgil. I am sorry. I am sorry for any pain or discomfort I caused you."_

Virgil took a break from reading to re-evaluate what had been said. He felt happier now. He hadn't realised the heavy burden he'd been carrying about with him. Events that had happened in the interim had pushed the stresses of that phone call to the background, but still, not knowing what was going on in John's mind had been wearing him down. He'd often heard of people feeling as though a great weight had been lifted off their shoulders, and now he understood what they meant.

The rest of the email related John's experiences so far, with humorous recounts of the rocket flight and events on the space station, and Virgil could only admire and envy his brother's eloquence. But despite all that there was no further mention of Tracey or the baby and no hint as to John's intentions with regards to International Rescue.

"_As you may have guessed, I have started writing another book. I've learnt a lot since the first one and believe that number two will be even better. But what would make it perfect would be for you to agree to provide the illustration for the cover."_

Virgil blinked. Illustration? For the cover!? He'd never thought that his artwork could ever be considered good enough for publication. This would take some serious thought and a lot of discussion with John.

"_I've printed off the picture you've emailed me and it now hangs in pride of place above my bed, while an electronic copy is the wallpaper on my computer. Several of the other guys have asked for copies for themselves, but I'm being selfish for once. You drew this for me and I'm keeping it for __**me**__._

"_Well… The send button for this email should have been pressed weeks ago so I'd better dispatch this before another day passes. _

"_Keep well and safe._

"_Your loving brother._

"_John"_

Virgil took the time to re-read the email again, before forwarding a judiciously edited copy to his father. Then he pressed reply and sent an email in return, telling John about the Crumps and Grandma's visit last Sunday, and the drama of earlier today… He checked the time. Yesterday.

When the email was finished he fell into bed, grateful that he did not have to go into work that day.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Virgil! Bruce!" The voice echoed in the still factory.

Both men turned and smiled when they heard the call. "Lisa!"

"How are you, Honey?" Virgil asked. He'd visited her at the hospital a couple of times, but today, the Monday after she'd been struck down, was the first day that Lisa Crump had returned to work.

Her skin still looked dry, and her eyes red, her husband was hovering at her side as if he expected her to evaporate into a cloud of dust, but apart from that her beauty hadn't diminished. "I'm fine. The doctors said I could take a couple more days off, but I want everything to get back to normal as soon as possible."

Bruce's grin was stretched from ear-to ear. "Get straight back onto the ol' bike, huh?"

She favoured him with one of her dazzling smiles. "Yes. Plus I know that he," she gave Butch an affectionate poke in the side, "would do nothing but fret if he couldn't keep an eye on me. So I'm back at work, on light duties."

"It's good to see your back," Virgil said.

"Yeah. And there's nothing wrong with your front either," Bruce teased and then held up his hands in mock surrender. "Joke, big guy," he informed Butch, who favoured him with an indulgent smile.

Lisa laughed. "We're glad we caught the pair of you before work, because we have something to ask you." She nudged her husband. "Go on."

"Okay…" Butch looked somewhat bashful. "It's our fifth wedding anniversary on the 25th. We're havin' a party 'n we'd like you both to come. Seein' as if'n it wasn't for you two we wouldn't be havin' a party."

Virgil felt a huge smile blossom over his face. "Sounds great! I'd love to come."

"Yeah," Bruce added. "Me too. Do you want us to bring anything?"

"No," Lisa smiled. "It's all on the invitations which I've stupidly left in Butch's bag. Butch honey, would you go and get them?" Looking like a puppy who'd been given a treat, Butch bounded away and Lisa watched him go before turning back. "Now, while we've got a moment alone, can I give you guys some advice? Normally I'd say bring a girlfriend if you want, but some of Butch's friends are coming and they are… well… let's say they're not gentlemen. I can handle them, but unless your lady friends are like me and," she smirked, "like 'a bit of rough', I wouldn't invite them along."

Bruce saluted. "Understood, Ma'am." He batted his eyelashes at Virgil. "You and I can go as partners for the evening."

Butch returned, holding out two envelopes. "Here'ya're. It's gonna be a great evenin'."

"I'm sure it will," Virgil remarked, accepting his invitation.

"Actually, Virgil," Lisa said, and to his surprise she seemed unsure of herself. "You've done so much for us that it seems a bit cheeky to ask you this, but we were wondering if you would consider playing our song for us, on the piano."

"It would be my pleasure," Virgil responded. "That's if I know it."

"You know it. Heard you play it," Butch informed him and, suddenly, inexplicably shy, dug his toe into the concrete floor. "_Love Overcomes all_," he muttered and glared at Bruce as if daring him to laugh.

"Nice song," Bruce said quickly.

"It was one of my mother's favourites," Virgil admitted. It always brought back memories and he'd only played it when he thought no one was listening.

Lisa must have heard the catch of sadness in his voice as she laid her hand on his arm. "Are you sure, Virgil? We don't want to impose."

"No," Virgil smiled at her. "It'd be an honour to play it for you."

The hooter, calling them to work, sounded and Bruce heaved a dramatic sigh. "Back to the daily grind of yet another uneventful week at ACE. Don't forget, Lisa, you've still got to show us the _right_ way to replenish that welder." He winked at her and she burst out laughing.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Virgil…" Lisa Crump caught him by the arm as they headed towards the canteen for their morning tea break.

He smiled at her. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm about to impose again I'm afraid. I wouldn't bother you, but I don't know who else I can turn to."

Virgil frowned. "This sounds ominous. Is everything all right?"

Lisa gave a light laugh, alleviating his fears somewhat. "Everything's fine… And I want to keep it that way."

"Then how can I help?"

"This isn't the time. Can I meet you at your place after work?"

Virgil gave her a sideways look. "After what happened last time, I'm not sure that's a good idea. I don't have Grandma and her handbag to bail me out if Butch gets the wrong idea again."

"Don't worry. As far as you and I are concerned he thinks you're beyond reproach. I've told him that I'm going to ask you to play more pieces for us and I want to work through the programme with you."

"But that's not the real reason?"

"I'll explain it later. Your place at 4.30?"

---I-R---

--F-A-B---

Virgil had only just made it home in time to hide all evidence of his father and to tidy up a little before Lisa arrived. He made them a coffee and then took a seat opposite her. "Okay. What's the big mystery that I can help you with?"

Lisa bit her lip as she considered how to begin. "It's like this… You've probably noticed that Butch and I are somewhat of a… shall we say… unlikely couple?"

Virgil gave a wry grin. "I should think that everyone would regard you as a kind of 'Beauty and the Beast' combo… Until you get to know Butch."

"And now you know what he's really like?"

"I think I've got a better idea now, than I did when I first started at ACE." Virgil chuckled. "Grandma thinks he's a big pussycat."

"Your grandmother is a very astute woman," Lisa smiled. "Unfortunately my family are unwilling to see past the façade that Butch has put up. They think I've made a terrible mistake and that I'm throwing my life away on him." She took a breath. "My parents envisaged me being a famous model, having a successful career, marrying a doctor or a lawyer… Or maybe someone handsome, with tons of money, but absolutely no personality, like one of Jeff Tracy's sons…"

Virgil choked on his coffee.

"Are you all right?" she asked in concern, patting him on the back as his coughing fit continued.

"Yes," he managed to gasp. "I'm okay…" He cleared his throat. "Sorry about that. So you've met them have you?"

"Who?"

"Jeff Tracy's sons."

"Oh, them!" Lisa gave a dismissive wave with her hand. "No. But I know the type. Never had to work a day in their lives and had everything handed to them on a plate."

"I met Mr Tracy the day you had your accident," Virgil informed her, phrasing his words with care. "He didn't seem to be the kind of man who'd spoil his sons. And he was telling us how hard he had to work to build up his empire and how the years after his wife died were a struggle."

"Well… Maybe Jeff Tracy's a bad example," Lisa conceded. "But you know the sort I mean."

Virgil had met that 'sort' and knew exactly what she meant. "So, getting back to the subject in hand… Your parents didn't take to Butch?"

"No…" Lisa went quiet, cradling her untouched cup in her hands. "They told me that if I continued my relationship with Butch it would either be him or them." She looked up at Virgil and he saw tears in her eyes. "They disowned me."

"Oh, heck." Virgil sat back. He couldn't imagine loving someone so much that he'd give up his family to be with them… But then again, he couldn't imagine his family taking such an inflexible stance. "That must be hard."

Lisa gave a delicate sniff. "It has been. I love Butch, but I still love them. They're…" another sniff. "They're my family."

"I can understand that."

"Up till now I've thought, _right! If that's the way you feel, then fine. I can live without you… _But then I had my accident…" Lisa wiped her eyes. "My mother came to visit me in hospital and I realised how much I miss them. I think they had as much of a fright as Butch and I did, so they've agreed to come to the party."

Virgil smiled at her. "Well, that's positive."

Lisa managed a smile in reply. "I want this anniversary to go smoothly so that they can see the real, wonderful, caring Butch… And that's where you come in."

Acutely curious as to what she thought he could do to help, Virgil said nothing.

"As your grandma said, Butch is a big pussycat, but he's made mistakes in his past. He was influenced by his family and some of his 'friends'. I'd rather they weren't there, but if my family's coming then I can't very well tell him not to invite his. And I've let him invite three of the senior members of his old gang for 'old time's sake', but they're the only ones allowed at the party and they're only allowed to come if they behave themselves."

"Gang?"

"Yes." Lisa nodded. "The Skulz."

Virgil didn't like the sound of that and was beginning to grow wary. "So… What do you want me to do?"

"Hopefully nothing. But I saw the way you handled Butch, with no fuss and no harm to either of you. Could you keep an eye on things and make sure it all goes smoothly?" Lisa looked at Virgil with pleading eyes. "Please?"

Virgil wasn't sure he was hearing right. "You want me to be the pianist _and_ the bouncer?"

"Not so much bouncer. But if you could keep your eyes open and try to diffuse any trouble before it starts, even if it means quietly calling the police, I'd be eternally grateful." Lisa looked grim. "I've told Butch that if there's any trouble, I'm leaving him."

Virgil was aghast. "You don't mean that, do you?"

He was horrified to see the tears welling up in her eyes again. "I do. I'm serious! He's got to realise once and for all that his old gang life is in the past and that I'm not a part of that scene. I've given up my family these last five years and I don't want to have to do it again, but it will happen if he's still involved with the Skulz. So," she heaved a shuddering sigh and wiped her eyes. "I've told him that either I'm the centre of his world with both our families revolving around us, or I'm not there at all."

"Lisa, you've only got to look at the way that Butch idolises you to know that you're more important than anything else to him. If you'd died I hate to think what he would have done."

"I'm not denying that he loves me. I just want him to realise that I can't be part of a world of violence and drugs and crime."

"How deeply was he involved?" Virgil asked, still wary.

"Only on the fringes. He hadn't earned his patch when he met me, but, up until then, being a full member of the Skulz like his family had been, was his only dream and I'm frightened that he's still holding onto that dream."

Acting as a security guard was not how Virgil had envisaged spending the night. "Lisa, look I…"

"Please, Virgil…" She placed her hand on his. "There's no one else I can ask. Imagine Butch's reaction if I asked a member of my family to do this. And there's no one in his family that I'd dare to ask. You're the only person that I trust."

Virgil sighed and ran his hand through his hair, wondering what he was letting himself in for. "I won't have to get into any physical confrontations?"

Lisa gave an emphatic shake to her head. "No. Butch assures me that his friends will behave themselves. You're my insurance policy."

"Well, I hope I don't have to pay out." Virgil nodded. "Okay. I'll keep my eyes open."

Lisa beamed up at him. "Thank you."

But Virgil was wondering what he had let himself in for.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

He was still thinking that at lunchtime the following day when he heard Butch call his name.

Virgil gave a quiet groan as he turned. He was beginning to get sick of the Crumps. "Hi, Butch."

"Hiya, Buddy," Butch gave him an affectionate but overpowering punch on the arm and Virgil hoped that that was the only bruise that he'd receive from anyone connected with the Crump family. "Can I ask ya a favour?"

Virgil just managed to suppress the second groan. "Depends what it is, Butch."

"Lisa saw ya yesterday about you playin' some music at our party."

Virgil nodded. After the initial disquieting conversation, he and Lisa and picked out a few easy listening pieces that he could play; as much to justify Lisa's visit as anything. "A couple."

"Wouldcha mind playin' one more?"

This sounded more in his line. "Sure," Virgil replied. "Which one?"

"_Somethin' Good._"

"_Somethin' Good_," Virgil repeated. "I don't know that one. Who performs it?" Butch mumbled something. "Sorry, I didn't catch that. Who?"

"Me."

Virgil stared at his friend. "Huh?"

"I wanna sing it… I wanna sing it for Lisa."

"Oh…" Nonplussed for a moment, Virgil froze in thought. "You want to sing it for Lisa? In front of everyone?"

Butch nodded, his normal brash persona disappearing behind a shy caricature of himself. "Lisa likes it when I sing."

Virgil had gathered his wits together. "I can understand why. I heard you sing to her the other day. You're good."

Butch looked even more bashful. "Thanks."

"Who was the original performer of _Somethin' Good_?"

"Maria an' the Captain."

Virgil frowned, trying to place the duo. "I don't think I know them. Can you hum it?"

"'Kay." Butch looked about to check that no one was within earshot before he began to sing…

"_Perhaps I had a wicked childhood_

_Perhaps I had a miserable youth_

_But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past_

_There must have been a moment of truth"_

Virgil's jaw dropped open. "That _Something Good_!? From the _Sound of Music_?!"

Butch nodded. "Yeah. It's Lisa's favourite."

Virgil only just managed to stop himself from shaking his head to clear it. "Okay… I know that one. Do you want to get a couple of rehearsals in before the big night?"

Butch nodded, suddenly eager. "Can I come round t' your place tonight?"

Virgil sighed. Another night with the Crumps.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil pulled up outside Bruce's and honked the car's horn. He'd spent a long time deciding what he was going to wear tonight. Not out of any sense of vanity, but a need to look presentable while still wearing something in which he could move easily in should the worst become the worst. In his mind the Boy Scout motto, _be prepared_, had a lot going for it.

Much to his disappointment Bruce didn't waste any time leaving the house and jumping into his car.

"Evenin'" Bruce said brightly.

"Are you in a hurry to get there?" Virgil asked. "I thought you'd be hours yet."

"Nope. But I know you're keen to get the lay of the land." Bruce grinned.

"Thanks." Virgil's dour tone matched his mood.

"Hey! Cheer up!" Bruce cajoled. "It might not happen…"

"Yeah…"

"Then again the entire membership of the Skulz might turn up to reclaim their prodigal son."

Virgil glared at him. "You're a real comfort." He continued to moan as Bruce did up his seat belt. "Why'd she have to choose me? I've never picked a fight in my life!"

"She picked you _because_ you've never picked a fight. She trusts you to not go in with all guns blazing."

"Yeah… Well…" Virgil agreed grudgingly. "I just know that Gordon's coming home in two weeks and I'd like to live long enough to see him again."

Bruce laughed. "Relax! If anything happens I'll be right behind you…"

"Thanks."

"…Running in the opposite direction."

"Do you want to start by walking there!?"

"Okay, okay. Peace." Bruce held up his hands in surrender. "Boy! You're in a real 'party' mood tonight."

"You're surprised?" Virgil switched on the car's ignition. "I work in a mental asylum and the worst inmates all want to be my friends!"

"Relax, Virgil," Bruce soothed, suddenly serious. "You're only imagining the worst. There might be no trouble whatsoever."

"I hope so." Virgil hummed a tune and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he set the car in motion.

"What's the song?"

"Huh? Oh… Something I was playing…" Virgil pushed the play button on his sound system.

"…_This is the craziest party there could ever be_

_Don't turn on the lights, 'cause I don't want to see…_

_Mama told me not to come…_"

"I wish Ma was here to tell me not to go," Virgil admitted. "I'd be more than happy to listen to her." He glanced upwards through the windscreen. "Send me a sign, Ma."

Butch laughed. "If your Mama's watching over you, I hope she'll keep an eye on me too..." He listened to the lyrics. "Is there anything you can't put to music?"

Virgil actually smiled.

Both men were singing "_Mama told me not to come_" when they pulled up at the small hall that was to be the venue for the Crump's 5th wedding anniversary party. Still following the Boy Scouts' motto, Virgil parked so that he could make a quick getaway if necessary. "Are you getting ready in case you'll need to convert this to an ambulance?" Bruce asked as he exited the car. "Maybe you should fit some jets so that you can take off vertically if you get hemmed in?"

For some reason Virgil found that very funny. He reached behind his seat and pulled out a flask.

Bruce gave it a sideways look. "Some of Grandma's magic potion, huh?"

Virgil nodded. "I won't take it in, but I wanted something on hand that I knew was safe."

"You're the king of the optimists."

"Virgil! Bruce!" Lisa rushed out into the car park, extending her hands to greet them. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Not as glad as we are that you're here." Virgil winked at her. "I wanted to get here early to make sure that the piano was tuned up."

"Give us a spin, Lisa," Bruce made a twirling motion with his finger and she obliged. Tonight, wearing just enough makeup to highlight her beauty, and a torso-hugging, strapless, Flamenco style, crimson dress that flowed out, revealing perfect legs when she spun about, she looked even more like a model than usual. "Wow! You look fantastic. If you ever decide to dump your husband, give me a call… You're a lucky guy, Butch," he added when the big man, looking relatively handsome in his suit, ambled over. "Just as well most of the guys from ACE aren't here drooling over your wife. You'd have to keep mopping up the floor to stop the rellies from slipping over…" Butch gave a smile of quiet pride as he hugged Lisa.

"You do look lovely, Lisa," Virgil agreed. "Five years of marriage to Butch obviously suits you."

Her smile broadened and she squeezed her husband about the waist. "I know. I'm very lucky. Why don't you get Bruce a drink, Honey, and I'll show Virgil the piano."

"Okay." The two men moved off; Bruce humming "_Mama told me not to come_".

"What's the programme?" Virgil asked as Lisa led the way into the hall.

"Half an hour to give everyone a chance to meet and greet, then we'll have the meal. An hour for that and then the tables will be cleared away. We've hired the local sports club to act as waiters. While the tables are being moved is when we'd like you to play those pieces we discussed. I hope you don't mind, but there will be some noise as the furniture's moved, but we thought your piano playing would help keep things ticking over during the interruption. Once you've played the four pieces that we agreed on…"

"_Five,"_ Virgil thought. _"That would be a good time for Butch to sing his love song."_

"…they should have finished clearing up. Then you play '_Love Overcomes all_'." And then you can relax for the rest of the evening."

"I hope," Virgil said, and then wished he hadn't. "Sorry. Any word from any of Butch's ex-associates?"

"No." Lisa appeared to be trying to remain bright and cheerful. "Here's the piano," she added as if he'd never seen one before.

Virgil lifted the lid and ran a set of scales up the keys. "It's usable." He found one note that was slightly out of tune. "That needs fixing."

Lisa looked at him with a worried frown creasing her pretty face. "Can you do anything?"

"I thought I might have a few problems…"

"Hey, guys," Bruce wandered over, carrying two glasses of orange juice, one of which he handed to Virgil. "What's up?"

"The piano needs a tune, so I'm going to get my tools out of the car," Virgil told him.

"I'll leave you boys to take care of that," Lisa said. "I'm going to check on the food preparations."

"While we case the joint," Bruce whispered as he watched her walk away. "Have you really got piano tuning tools in your car?"

"Yep." Virgil smiled. "I like to be prepared."

"Boy Scout."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The first part of the evening went well. Virgil and Bruce were introduced as the two heroes who had saved Lisa's life. They were gushed over by Lisa's relatives and treated with deference by Butch's family and friends, who had taken the request to try to act respectable to heart. They were all wearing their cleanest clothes, some of which appeared to have been obtained from the local second-hand shop. They also had bathed and attempted to tame their wild hair. In some parts of the room the smell of aftershave was almost overpowering.

One of Lisa's young nephews was wandering around, a video camera glued to his eye and Virgil called him over. "That's a pretty fancy bit of equipment you've got there, Pal."

"Yeah," the boy, whom Virgil assumed to be about ten, beamed up at him. "My parents gave it to me for my birthday."

"You're lucky," Virgil enthused. "What's your name?"

"Jacob."

"I'll bet you're a real pro at editing the final video too, aren't you, Jacob?"

"Yeah," Jacob nodded. "I've got all the gear. Dad said I can upload it to the Internet when I've finished, so that everyone can see it. "

"That's great. And you can do fancy effects? Fades and all that?"

"Yep," the youngster grinned. "No sweat."

"Then would you do me a favour, Jacob?" Virgil asked. "I know it sounds silly, but I hate being videoed. I'm not going to stop you because I think Lisa and Butch would love to have a record of tonight. But when you make copies, and upload it to the Internet, can you hide my face like they do in the news?"

"Huh?" The kid stared at him.

"I'm sure that someone as clever as you won't find it any trouble." Virgil reached into his wallet and pulled out a note. "That'll help you remember to wipe me from the video."

Jacob hesitated, looked at the money in Virgil's hand, and then grinned. "Sure! I can do that for you."

"Good man." Virgil patted him on the shoulder.

"What's this?" Bruce said, having returned from the drinks table. "Bribing innocent youngsters?

"Jacob and I have done a deal," Virgil explained. "Right, Pal?"

"Right," Jacob nodded. "Maybe I'll wipe Butch from the video too."

"Why would you want to do that?" Bruce asked, taking a seat.

"'Cause he's 'scuzzy'. Dad says so. Ma says Aunty Lisa's asking for trouble marrying him."

"Scuzzy?" Virgil stared at the boy.

"I'll tell you something, Jacob," Bruce said. "I used to think that Butch was pretty 'scuzzy' too."

Jacob looked up at him in wonder. "You did?"

"Yeah. He frightened me and I thought he was kinda weird with all those 'tats' and things. But do you know something?" Bruce leant closer to Jacob. "I never actually tried to get to know him. I never tried to have a conversation with him to find out what he was really like… Do you like cars?"

"Yeah?" Jacob replied, confused by Bruce's apparent change of direction.

"So do I. And so does Butch. Did you know he's got a Red-Arrow sportster?"

"He has?!" A light appeared to switch on in Jacob's eyes.

"He has," Bruce confirmed. "When I found this out I took the time to sit down and talk to Butch about his Red-Arrow. And do you know what I found out?"

"No?" Jacob's eyes were wide.

"That he's actually a pretty interesting guy," Bruce stated. "And I think he's quite shy too…"

"Butch?" Jacob's wide eyes turned to their subject, who was hanging onto Lisa with a goofy smile. She was talking to one of her relatives, but he was saying nothing.

"Yeah. Butch."

"Do you think he'd talk to me about his Red-Arrow?"

"I'm sure he would if you asked him. He might let you video it. He might even take you for a ride in it. Now _that_ would make an awesome video."

"Yeah!" Jacob agreed. "It would. 'Scuse me." He took off at a run to Butch and said something to the big man. Bruce and Virgil watched as Butch turned, crouched down to listen to the boy and then nodded, his face lighting up.

Virgil gave Bruce a playful punch on the arm. "Nice one."

"Thanks. Always willing to do my bit for inter-familial relations."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The meal was over.

"So far so good," Bruce commented as he followed Virgil over to the piano. "Want me to turn the pages?"

"Can you read music?"

"No."

"No, thanks."

The first two numbers were punctuated with a percussion of bangs and scrapes as the youthful members of the sports club removed first the dishes, and then the tables. Virgil carried on playing tune number three and then segued into the fourth. He winked at Butch to let him know that he was on next.

The proud husband escorted Lisa out onto the dance floor. Expecting the opening strains of _Love Overcomes all_, she was instead surprised to hear a different tune. She was even more astonished, and delighted, when Butch placed his hands about her waist, picked her up, and placed her on a stool.

"Lisa…" Butch began, holding her hands and gazing up at her with rapturous adoration. "My Liesl… I don' deserve someone as beautiful as you, but f' five years you' stood nexta me, an' cared for me, and loved me. I'm a lucky man, Liesl… an' I don't know why…" He began to sing; his rich baritone and Virgil's piano filling the hall.

"…_For here you are, standing there, loving me_

_Whether or not you should_

_So somewhere in my youth or childhood_

_I must have done something good…"_

Lisa stood on her pedestal, entranced by this declaration of love, tears of joy on her cheeks. As the last notes tailed off, Butch tenderly lifted her off the stool, "I love you, Lisa."

"I love you too," Lisa embraced her husband. "Thank you."

The hall erupted into cheers and applause and Virgil began playing _Love Overcomes all_ as they kissed. The noise was so loud that he almost didn't hear Bruce's "Uh oh."

Virgil glanced at the guests of honour in time to see them both look towards the door; Lisa's face falling, while Butch's lit up in delight. Twisting around on the piano stool, Virgil saw why.

Standing at the door to the hall, clapping in a slow rhythm which suggested irony rather than appreciation, were a group of bikers.

"Looks like you're on," Butch whispered.

That thought had gone through Virgil's mind too. He stood and, trying to remain pleasant and non-threatening, approached the interlopers. As he drew close he gained a new appreciation of deodorant and aftershave, as these visitors had made no effort to dress, or wash, for the occasion. "Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked, plastering a smile on his face.

"We're 'ere to congratulate Butch an' his misses," one of them, their leader, stated.

"This is a private party," Virgil continued gamely. "Do you have invitations?"

"Don't he talk nice?" An underling sneered.

"This is my invitayshun." Leader punched his right fist into his left hand. "Outta my way." He pushed Virgil aside, giving him a clear view of the scowling skull on the back of his leather jacket, and marched over to the Crumps. But, before he could reach his goal, he was intercepted by his three, invited, colleagues.

"Get outta here, Muzz," the eldest said. "You're not welcome."

"Sez who?"

"Sez us," invitee number two claimed.

Muzz leered over their shoulders to where Butch and Lisa were standing. "Hiya, Babe." His eyes roved over her body and Lisa shrunk back to hide behind her husband.

"That's enough, Muzz," invitee number one stated. "Get out."

"But the party's only just started," Muzz sneered. "I wanna dance with the luvli Lisa."

"Come outside." Butch stepped forward and shared a gangland handshake with Muzz. "We'll talk there."

Virgil saw Lisa, looking mortified at what was happening, turn away from her husband. The Skulz and Butch, talking with much enthusiasm and not much decorum, headed out to the car park. Thinking that this probably wasn't the brightest thing he was ever going to do, Virgil followed, stopping just inside the front door so he could spy on events outside.

A crowd of patched gang members were lolling about in the yard. One was sitting on the bonnet of Virgil's car, drumming his heels against the side. Some were drinking, some were talking to their friends, and some were passing about something that Virgil was pretty sure wasn't legal. He put through a precautionary phone call through to the police.

…And then jumped when someone came up behind him. "Trouble?" Bruce asked.

"Not yet. And not if I can help it."

"I'm right behind you, Virgil."

"Thanks, Bruce."

"Virgil." Virgil turned to Lisa who appeared to be trying to hold back tears. "You won't let them do anything, will you?"

Virgil gestured to the gang of Skulz congregating outside around their motorbikes. "There must be at least 20 of them, Lisa."

"At least get Butch out of there," she pleaded.

Virgil sighed. "I'll do my best." He stepped out into the cold glow of the street lights, wishing that he had his four muscular brothers as backup. Not a skinny friend humming "_Mama told me not to come_".

Muzz nudged Butch. "Here's ya tame poodle, Bro. I hope ya can stop 'is yappin'. Otherwise we'll 'ave to muzzle 'im."

Years of teasing from his brothers had made Virgil immune to such taunts. "I'm just here to tell you fellas that I've called the police and they're on their way. We don't want any trouble."

"Police?" Butch looked hurt. "But these guys won't cause trouble. Will ya, Muzz? They're my friends."

"If they are your friends, Butch, then they'll leave straight away. And once they're gone I'll call the police off." Virgil held up his mobile phone. "How about it?"

"How about we show you what we think of ya fancy phone?" Muzz asked and snatched the mobile out of Virgil's hand. One steel-pointed toe, jack-booted heel later, and the delicate electronics lay scrunched into the concrete of the car park.

"That wasn't very clever," Virgil said. "I can't stop the police now."

"Why'd you call the police, Virgil?" Butch whined. "M' pals just wanted to wish me an' Lisa happy anniversary."

"Virgil?" Muzz barked out a laugh and his cronies obediently joined in. "What kinda name is 'Virgil'? Jus' the kinda name I'd 'xpect a poodle like ya to 'ave."

Virgil ignored him. "The police will be here soon. Are you going to leave now or spoil Butch's party by creating a scene?"

"Whad is it, Butch?" Muzz asked. "Ya gonna listen to the poodle or to me?"

Caught between his loyalties to his old friends and his new one, Butch hesitated.

As one, the Skulz took a menacing step forwards, their focus on Virgil; who wished the police would hurry up and get there.

Lisa stepped out of the hall. "Butch," she called. "Will you come inside, please?"

There were catcalls from the Skulz. "Why don' ya come out 'n join us, Lisa?" Muzz leered. "We'll show ya a real good time… Right, Boys?" His subordinates laughed but Virgil felt the atmosphere change. He tried to relax; aware that there was trouble brewing.

"No," Lisa said, her voice firm although Virgil thought he could see her trembling. "Come inside, Butch."

More catcalls.

"Go on, Butch," Virgil suggested. "You don't want to spoil Lisa's evening."

"You shut ya trap, poodle!" one of the gang members snarled and Virgil parried a punch. "Get 'im!"

"Don't hurt him!" Butch roared.

Virgil wasn't sure if that directive was levelled at him or his attacker, but three members of the Skulz decided Butch was on their side. He defended himself against the first two, but didn't have the chance to ready himself before the attack by the third. He hit the ground hard, the skin by his left eye throbbing and the sensation of something warm and wet running down his cheek. He rubbed at it and his hand came away red.

Blood.

There was a moan, a muffled cry, and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. Butch having seen blood, had keeled over; managing to squash one of his ex-associates in the process.

"Butch!" Lisa ran forward to her husband's aid.

Muzz seized the moment… and Lisa, who screamed. "C'mon, Sweetheart. Lemme show ya what a real man can do."

Virgil got back to his feet, but it was Bruce who made the first move. "Leave her alone!" He demanded as he charged at Muzz, shouldering the gang leader away from Lisa who fell backwards onto the ground.

"Think yi're gonna stop me, worm?" Muzz jeered at Bruce, who was dancing around, his fists raised. "C'mon. Do ya worst!"

Virgil helped Lisa to her feet. "Get out of here!" he ordered.

"But Butch…"

But it wasn't Butch who was in trouble. A blow to the head had sent Bruce staggering. He collapsed to the ground and lay there as a knife seemed to appear out of thin air. Muzz stood over Bruce's prone body, ready to exact his revenge.

Working as much from instinct as conscious thought, Virgil took one step and, with a roundhouse kick, sent the knife flying from Muzz's hand. There was a cheer from somewhere in the vicinity of the hall.

Snarling, Muzz turned on Virgil. "You're dead meat, poodle!"

Virgil hoped not.

His diversion came from an unexpected quarter. Wondering what was happening outside that was so interesting; Butch's relatives had left the party. They saw their kin regaining consciousness on the ground, decided that he'd been attacked, and with no regard as to whom the culprit could be, dived into the melee.

Virgil dodged an attack from one gang member, parried a second's blow, and then had to roll out of the dangerous manoeuvre when a third managed to tip him headfirst towards the concrete. He was still down when he realised that Muzz was once again moving in on a groggy Bruce, preparing to plant one of those villainous pointed-steel toecaps into his friend's soft belly. Virgil rolled closer and kicked out; knocking Muzz's other leg out from under him.

There was another cheer from the hall.

Virgil leapt to his feet to dodge an attack from Muzz's supporters and wondered what was taking the police so long to arrive.

If it was hectic before, it was mayhem now. Carrying various bits of weaponry, Skulz appeared to rush at Virgil from all directions. Butch was screaming insults and threatening personal injury on any person who harmed a member of his family or friends. Lisa was trying to assist Bruce to safety, but was hindered by her long skirt, high heels, and by the way his legs appeared to have turned to jelly.

And Virgil was fighting for his life.

Kicking here, elbowing there, a blow to a throat, a knee to a groin, using nearly every trick he'd learnt from Kyrano's martial arts classes; Virgil tried not to let the gang get the upper hand, but he was fighting a losing battle against insurmountable numbers. His efforts earned him some painful blows to the body, one of which landed squarely on his solar plexus: leaving him doubled over, gasping for breath. It could have been the end had Butch not finally decided where his loyalties lay and charged at Virgil's attacker; punching him to the ground, before turning on his associates. It was during that brief respite that Virgil saw Muzz retrieve his knife and once again advance on Bruce and Lisa. "Bruce!" he gasped. "Behind you!"

Bruce turned and saw the knife. Gallantry overcoming sanity, he placed himself between the weapon and Lisa. "Leave 'er 'lone," he slurred.

"Oh ho!" Muzz jeered. "Big guy, huh?" He took a step forward, holding the knife in a manner that suggested that he was experienced in its use. "Let's see how big ya are… spread out all over the ground."

Realising that her protector was in no shape to deal with an armed thug, Lisa pulled Bruce back. "You leave him alone!" she snarled at Muzz.

Virgil sent one Skulz flying into another.

"Ya know you're beautiful when ya're angry, Liesl," Muzz teased.

"Don't call me that!" she hissed. "Only Butch calls me that."

"Liesl, Liesl, Liesl," Muzz taunted.

Bruce hefted up a piece of wood, which appeared to weigh heavy in his hands. "Stand back, Lisa," he ordered as he eyed their aggressor and the knife. "Don' come any closer… Punk."

Butch let loose an upper-cut that launched a Skulz skyward.

"Punk?" Muzz stared Bruce down. "A worm like you calls _me_ 'Punk'? Time you were taught a lesson…" He lurched forward, the knife in his hand extended towards Bruce's heart.

Virgil drove his elbow into a Skulz throat and the man staggered back, gasping.

Butch punched a Skulz on the side of the head, sending teeth flying.

Lisa screamed.

Bruce stared at his piece of wood, which had a long, sharp knife embedded in it. He gulped… and fainted.

Muzz grabbed Lisa who screamed again. "Butch! Help me!"

Her husband heard her cry. He turned and saw Lisa struggling in the arms of his ex-friend. Letting out a roar, he charged through gang members who fell by the wayside like wheat in a field. "You're dead, Muzz!"

Virgil heard the scream and the echoing shout. He saw Lisa's struggles and Bruce out on the ground. Then he lost sight of them both as a bruiser of a man attempted to head-butt him. He ducked and the bruiser slammed his head into the head of another Skulz who'd sneaked up behind. They both collapsed to the ground.

Leaping over the bruiser, Virgil took off to Lisa's aid.

Not that she needed it. Muzz let out a scream of pain as Lisa's stiletto heel gouged down his shin. Freed from his clutches, Lisa attempted to run, but her weapon had become her Achilles heel as her stiletto snagged in the top of Muzz's boot and she pitched forward; skidding along the ground.

If Muzz had any intention of gaining retribution, his plans were thwarted when Butch mowed him down. Screaming abuse, the angry man landed one blow and then another on the gang boss who tried ineffectually to defend himself. Fearful that Butch might end up facing a murder charge, Virgil pulled him off. "Butch!"

"Lemme at 'im!"

"Go look after Lisa!"

"Lisa?"

"Yes! Lisa!" Virgil kicked out at a thug who was bearing down on them.

Butch looked down at his wife, saw that her make-up was ruined and her dress torn. "Lisa?"

"Oh, Butch. Why'd you have to join them…?"

Virgil turned his attention to Bruce. His friend was sitting on the cold concrete staring at a knife sticking out of a piece of wood and giggling hysterically. "Bruce?"

"Gottem," Bruce giggled. "Gottem good."

Virgil was attacked again. A rock hard arm across his throat sent him flying, gulping for air, to the ground. Ugly faces and hard fists and feet bore down on him, landing blow after painful blow. He fought them, but was almost ready to accept that there was no escape when his assailants fell back revealing a cool, starry sky. Bruised and bleeding he got to his feet and tried to steady himself, ready for the next attack. Someone grabbed his arm and Virgil spun about, fist ready to throw a defensive punch. He stopped himself just in time and let his hand drop to his side.

"Smart boy," the policeman said. "You're under arrest."

It was only then that Virgil became aware that the car park was filled with flashing lights and uniformed men.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Let me get this straight," the cop said, glaring at Virgil over the desk. "You told me that your name's Tancy. But now you're saying it's really Tracy?"

Virgil nodded, feeling his stiff neck muscles complain. He'd already had paid a visit to the police surgeon, who'd pronounced no long term damage, followed by an humiliating session having every cut, graze and bruise photographed and recorded. "Yes. I work for Aeronautical Component Engineering, which is owned by my father. I don't want my work colleagues to treat me any different to anyone else, so I'm using the alias of Tancy. Bruce Sanders was the only one at the party who knows who I really am." He sat forward, feeling more complaints from his body. "How is Bruce?"

"Gone for a scan."

"What? Why?!"

The policeman, name Villanueva according to the label on his chest, ignored Virgil's concerns. "So you've been lying to us?"

"Well…" Virgil had a bad feeling about this. "Technically, I suppose you could say, 'yes'. But I did mention it as soon as I was alone with a member of the police force. Look…Check my wallet. It's got my identification. Driver's licence… Pilot's licence…"

The cop seemed uninterested as he made a few notes on his charge sheet. "You said your father owns Aeronautical Component Engineering?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And his name is…"

Virgil stared at the man. Normally the combination of the names Tracy and ACE would be enough to start lights flashing. "Jeff, ah, Jefferson Tracy."

"Jefferson… Tracy…" Villanueva wrote, not showing any signs of recognition at the name. "He'll confirm your story?"

"Yes. Look, I'm the one who called the police in the first place. I _was_ fighting but it was in self-defence. It was the Skulz who started it." Virgil was ignored again.

Villanueva reached into a case and removed a flask inside an evidence bag. "Do you know what this is?"

"Yes. It's mine. I took it to the party in case I had any concerns about what was in the drinks available."

"What is in this flask?"

Feeling bemused by this line of questioning, Virgil had to stop and think. "Fruit juice."

Villanueva frowned. "Fruit juice?"

"Yes. It's my grandmother's recipe. It's a mixture of fruit juices and some spices."

"I think you ought to be warned that the contents of this flask have been sent for analysis."

"Analysis?"

"Yes."

"For drugs?"

"Yes."

"In Grandma's fruit juice?" Virgil started to laugh, but the pain from his split lip pulled him up short. "Ow… That's ridiculous…! Look, you said that I need a lawyer."

"Yes."

"How about my friends? Will Bruce?"

Villanueva checked his notes. "That would be Bruce Sanders?"

"Yes."

"He does."

"Does Butch?"

The notes were checked again. "Butch?"

"Butch Crump… No, hang on. His first name's really Cyril."

Virgil found himself under Villanueva's scrutiny again. "Is he the son of the owner too?"

"No. Butch is his nickname… I don't know if he's changed it legally."

"Cyril Crump…" Villanueva went through the list of miscreants. "Yes, he's here."

"How about Butch's, ah, Cyril's wife, Lisa?"

"There are no women under arrest."

Virgil let out a sigh of relief. "Can my lawyer act for all three of us?"

Villanueva fixed Virgil with a level stare. "Does this mean that you are not requesting the courts to appoint a lawyer to represent you?"

"That's right. Can I make a phone call to arrange it?"

"Brown," Villanueva turned to the policeman standing in attendance at the doorway. "Escort Mr 'Tracy' to the phone and let him make his call."

"Yes, Sir."

But it wasn't a lawyer's number that Virgil dialled and he had to wait some time for the phone to be answered. "Hi, Father."

"Virgil?" Jeff was sounding half-asleep. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Ah, yeah." Virgil had only just realised. "Sorry, but I need your help."

"It's not John again is it?"

"No…"

"One of the others?"

"No. I…"

"Then this had better be important. I've had a busy day."

"I know, and I'm sorry that I have to call."

"Well," Jeff growled, "what is it?"

"I'm…ah…" Virgil had been so sure that his father would understand his predicament and know that he was innocent, that he'd had no hesitation in making the phone call. But now, when it was actually time to make the request…

"Virgil?"

"I'm under arrest," Virgil admitted, and waited for the reaction.

It was a long time in coming as Jeff tried to get his head around what had been said. "You're what?"

"In police custody. I need a lawyer."

"You're – under – arrest?"

"Yes."

"You?!"

"Yes, Father."

"Virgil?"

"Yes."

"Has Gordon put you up to this?"

"Father…"

"All right, Virgil. I know that was a stupid thing to say. But I just can't believe it." Jeff sighed, now fully awake. "What are the charges?"

"Uh… Disorderly conduct… Assault and battery…"

"What!!!"

"I'm innocent! But I need legal representation."

"I'm sure you do." Jeff sounded grim and Virgil started to wonder if his father was as trusting as he'd assumed.

"Um… Can I ask a favour?"

"Apart from getting bailed out of jail?"

"Uh, yeah. Can the lawyer represent Bruce and Butch too?"

"Bruce Sanders and Butch Crump?"

"Yes. I'll pay you back!"

"Virgil, even with the retainer I'm paying you, you could never afford my lawyers, especially at the rate I'm going to be charged for their being called out at this hour…" Another sigh. "Give me the necessary details…"

When Virgil hung up the phone he was escorted, not to a cell, but back to the interview room, which had been deserted by Villanueva. As he waited on the uncomfortable seats, trying to work out which part of his abused body hurt the most, he idly wondered if he was confined in here because the Tracy name had finally rung some alarm bells, or because the cells were full of Skulz…

…And Bruce and Butch.

It must have been at least an hour; Virgil had no way of telling since the remains of his broken watch had been confiscated by the police, before the lawyer arrived. The man was dressed impeccably, showing no signs of having been dragged out of his bed at an unearthly hour by one of the world's richest men. He gave a cold nod. "Mr Tracy. I am Mr Kirby."

Virgil had stood in greeting. "Pleased to meet you, Sir."

Kirby gestured for him to be seated, which Virgil did with a grimace. "You are in pain?"

"A little discomfort," Virgil admitted. "It's Bruce I'm worried about. All they've told me is that he was having a scan. Have you heard if he's all right?"

"That is Mr Sanders?"

"Yes."

"Mr Sanders has sustained a mild concussion." Kirby dismissed Virgil's concerned reaction. "Perhaps we could begin by you telling me exactly what happened tonight?"

Trying to remember all the events systematically and clearly, Virgil recounted everything from Lisa's request for his help to the moment that he'd been taken away in a police car.

Kirby nodded, still stiffly formal in his suit and tie. "Very good. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and consult with my colleagues who are in discussion with Mr Sanders and Mr Crump." He stood, nodded again to Virgil, and then was allowed by the watching policeman to depart the room.

Half an hour later Virgil was escorted to another interview room. "Bruce!"

Bruce lifted his head from where he'd been resting it on his arms on the table. "Hiya, Virgil. Thanks for getting me the lawyer." He frowned. "You look worse than I feel."

"I'm okay." Trying not to display signs of pain, Virgil took the seat next to his friend. "Are you all right?"

"Mild concussion. They tell me that if I get plenty of rest I'll be okay." Bruce sighed. "I've never had to report in sick in my life and now I'm going to be on leave for at least the next week."

"At least that's all. You had me worried when I saw you out cold on the ground."

"I was…?" Bruce shook his head slowly. "I don't remember. I can't remember anything after we left the hall. Not until I found myself being examined by the doctor."

Virgil felt the wave of guilt build inside of him. "I'm sorry, Bruce. This is my fault. I shouldn't've…"

"No, it's not," Bruce interrupted. He gave a wan smile. "Not unless you're the one who hit me on the head."

"No. That was Muzz."

"What happened?"

The door was opening. "I'll tell you when you're feeling better…"

Butch was led into the room by two enormous policemen. Now that the adrenaline had drained out of his system he looked to have shrivelled a couple of sizes. He collapsed into a chair. "Hi, Guys."

"Hi, Butch."

Butch stared at his hands. "Whata way t' spend ya anniversary."

"Have you spoken to Lisa?" Virgil asked.

Butch gave a slow nod. "When th' lawyer showed up, I used m' phone call to ring 'er. She's gonna pick us up. She's hoppin' mad."

Virgil wasn't surprised, but refrained from comment.

The door opened again and three men entered the room. One was Mr Kirby and Virgil assumed that the other two were his associates. "Bail has been posted," Mr Kirby announced. "Your father, Mr T… Virgil," he amended giving the smallest of smiles, "has paid the bond. You are free to go on the condition that you do not leave the city until after the initial hearing. Is that understood?"

Virgil thought of Gordon's homecoming party at the family home, in another state, and his heart sank. But he nodded his agreement.

"Good. I believe that your wife is waiting for you, Mr Crump."

Lisa _was_ waiting for them and she looked to have been waiting for a long time. She still wore her dress from the night before, which, in the cold lights of the police station foyer, Virgil could see was torn and filthy. Her mascara had run, a sure sign that she'd been crying, but at present her lips were a thin furious line.

"Liesl …" Butch began.

"Don't you Liesl me," she hissed. "Get outside and into that car!"

Virgil was feeling as guilty as Butch looked. After all, he'd promised that he'd try to prevent trouble: not be part of it. "I'm sorry, Lisa."

"This isn't your fault," she snapped as they stepped outside into the full light of day. "It's my husband's!" She glared at Butch and Virgil got the impression that the four of them in one car would not make for a comfortable journey.

"Look, it's been a long night and you must be beat, Lisa." He gave an ingratiating smile. "Why don't you and Butch go straight home. Bruce and I can take a taxi."

Bruce must have been sharing similar thoughts. "Good idea, Virgil."

Butch knew his wife well enough to realise that he was in big trouble, and that his only buffer against the storm was about to desert him. "We can't let th' guys do that, can we, Lisa?"

"I'm sure Virgil and Bruce quite capable of finding their own way home." Lisa stopped by the driver's door to the car. "Get in, Butch."

"But, Lisa…"

"Get in!"

Butch got in.

Virgil and Bruce waved the Crumps goodbye before Virgil turned to his friend. "I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? I've already risked my neck once in the last 24 hours and I didn't fancy doing it again."

There was a taxi waiting and both men climbed in wearily. Virgil gave the driver Bruce's address. "Hey!" Bruce exclaimed. "What are you doing? I thought you'd want to go get your car."

"That can wait. You need to get some rest."

It was a quiet trip back to Bruce's home. Once there Virgil paid off the taxi driver and then assisted his friend inside.

It was another hour before he made it back to the car park that had been the scene of the fight. His car remained there, alone and looking like it was going to need a lot of body work. Sighing in exasperation, wondering if he could report the crime, Virgil let himself into the vehicle, glad that he didn't have to rely on keys for entry. Every bone in his body yearning for rest, he took himself off home.

_To be continued…_

"_Something Good" from the Sound of Music copyright Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II (1965)_

"_Mama Told Me Not To Come" copyright Randy Newman (1966)_


	8. A Quiet Separation

**08 – A Quiet Separation**

It was mid-Sunday morning by the time Virgil parked his battered car in the garage and then dragged his battered body into his house.

"Euterpe," he crooned, dropping his jacket on the floor, pulling his shirt over his head, and kicking his shoes off as he staggered towards his bed. "…Sing to me Morpheus' lullaby." He collapsed facedown onto the bed and then wished he hadn't as his body complained. Hugging one soft pillow against his abused torso he nuzzled into the second downy soft haven of bliss…

The phone rang.

Virgil pulled his pillow over his head. "Go away."

_*Ring. Ring.*_

"Leave me alone."

_*Ring. Ring.*_

"I don't want to talk to you!"

_*Ring. Ring.*_

Virgil pulled the pillow down tighter over his ears, but the phone's persistent ringing still penetrated the downy cushioning. Surrendering to the insistent chime, Virgil groaned before rolling over and sitting up. "Okay… I'm coming…"

_*Ring. Ring.*_

"I said I'm coming!" Virgil eased himself with care into the seat by the phone and, making sure it was set to 'sound only', answered the call. "Hello."

"Virgil? It's Wayne Morris from the medical school. Are you all right?"

"Yeah…" Virgil replied, feeling anything but and wondering how his tutor had found out about last evening's catastrophe.

"Only it's 9.30 and you're not here yet. That's not like you…"

"Not here?" Virgil frowned, trying to make his tired brain comprehend.

"For your final examination."

"What!" Virgil switched the on the video so he could see Wayne's face. "Exam! Oh, heck!" He slumped in his chair. "I forgot it was today."

"Virgil!" Wayne stared at Virgil's facial bruises and lacerations. "What's happened to you? Are you all right?!"

Virgil gave him an abbreviated version of events. "When I accepted I thought I'd be able to leave early. Even when she asked me to help I honestly didn't think I'd be out late last night. Well… Not this late." Virgil ran his hand though his hair. "I've only just got home…!" He thought briefly. "If I leave now I should be there by ten…"

"No. Don't," Wayne instructed. "You look shot," and Virgil had to admit that that was an accurate description of the way he was feeling. "I don't want you having an accident trying to get here on time and I doubt that you're feeling up to being quizzed today. Let me talk to the examiner. It's not standard practice, but seeing as you've attended every class and," here Wayne gave a wry smile, "you've already passed one practical test under pressure, I might be able to get you an extension. No promises though."

"Thanks, Wayne."

"Besides," Wayne's grin broadened. "If you did turn up, the other students might think that fixing you up is part of the examination." He lost his smile. "Leave it with me, Virgil. Don't worry about anything, and I won't call you again until tomorrow. You look like you need a full day's rest."

"Thanks, Wayne," Virgil repeated. "I appreciate this."

"No worries. Take care and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Virgil disconnected the call and dragged himself with bed, this time lying down with more circumspection. "Ahhh… Bliss…"

_*Ring. Ring.*_

"I don't believe this."

_*Ring. Ring.*_

"I thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest!"

_*Ring. Ring.*_

Virgil threw his pillow at the phone.

_*Ring. Ring.*_

Deciding he'd deal with this call and then throw the phone out the window, Virgil hauled himself back over to the instrument. This time he couldn't be bothered switching off the video feed. "Yeah?"

"Virgil…!" Jeff's mouth had dropped open at the first glimpse of his son. "Are you all right?"

"If I was awake enough to think up a suitable response to that, I would!"

"I'm sorry," Jeff responded. "It was a stupid question."

Virgil sighed. "Not as stupid as the answer. I'm okay. I'm tired and I'm sore, but that's all. There's nothing seriously wrong with me that a good sleep won't help to fix."

"Bill Kirby told me you'd been released, so I thought I'd call. But he didn't tell me that you were in that state. Look, go back to bed and call me when you wake up…"

"No, it's okay, Father." Virgil responded, feeling ashamed about the way he'd answered the phone. "Thanks for arranging legal representation."

"That's okay. How did you find Bill?"

"I think he initially had me pegged as some spoilt rich kid who thought I could get away with anything because Daddy would bail me out. When he realised I was simply defending myself and the others he became more approachable."

"That's good. He's a top man."

"He'd have to be to be on your payroll… I suppose you want to hear my version of events?"

"If you're up to it."

By the time Virgil had finished retelling the tale in more detail than he'd told Wayne Morris, Jeff's lips were pursed together in an angry thin line. "And those cops think that you weren't acting in self-defence?"

"Yeah. Like I'm stupid enough to take on an entire gang almost single handed. Bruce tried to help and nearly got himself stabbed."

"Is he okay?"

"Mild concussion, but yeah, he's gonna be okay. But you're going to be short a staff member for the next few days." Virgil attempted a stretch to work out some of the kinks, and then decided it wasn't a good idea. "Better make that two tomorrow."

"I'll let Hamish know." Jeff paused. "Are you sure you're okay? If you want I could fly out, or else Grandma…"

"No, I'm fine," Virgil interrupted. "I just need some sleep. I'm so tired that I'd forgotten that my final exam was today until Wayne Morris rang up to see why I wasn't there. He's going to see if I can take the test on a later date."

"Well, if you can't, don't worry. You don't need a piece of paper to prove to me that you can do the job. You've already shown you're more than capable."

"I don't like the idea of being the only one without formal certification."

"You might not be. Alan hasn't re-sat his exam yet."

"He didn't pass?" This was news to Virgil. When he'd asked his youngest brother how it had gone Alan had responded with an airy _"no problems"_.

"He's too busy living the fast life before thinks he has to settle down," Jeff growled. "Talking of Alan, do you want me to tell your brothers what happened last night?"

"Just so long as you tell them that I'm okay and not to bother phoning me. I'm taking the phone off the hook."

Jeff gave a grim smile. "That's a good idea, Virgil. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Father."

'Call Ended' appeared on the videophone's screen and Virgil pushed the button that transferred all incoming calls directly to his answer-phone. Then he, yet again, stood and tottered towards his bed…

The doorbell rang.

"Somebody up there hates me," he muttered. "And if it's a Crump behind that door they're going to be sorry!"

It was a Crump. But before Virgil was able to shut Butch out, the big man staggered forward. "She's gone," he moaned, and practically collapsed into Virgil's arms.

Virgil winced at the sudden application of weight and tried not to moan in pain. "Who's gone?" he asked, disentangling himself from Butch's grasp and leading him over to a chair. He picked his bloodied shirt up from where he'd abandoned it on the floor and hurriedly bundled it up into the laundry basket.

"Lisa," Butch sniffed.

"Gone where?" Virgil pulled a polo-neck shirt out of his drawer and pulled it over his head, trying not to look at the injuries to his torso.

"Away… She's left me!" Butch's face crumpled and a waterfall of tears gushed from his eyes. "Sh-Sh-Sh," he gasped for air. "She says she's gone for good."

"Oh," Virgil responded, his face grim. It seemed that Lisa had kept her word. "I'm sorry, Butch."

"WhaddamI gonna do without her? I love her."

"I know you do."

"Id's my fault."

Agreeing with him didn't seem to be the most sensible thing to do. "You weren't to know that the Skulz were going to start a fight."

"Thad Muzz…" Butch sniffed. "Didya see whad he was gonna do to her? My Lisa…? Lisa…" he moaned and a fresh cascade of tears flooded down his cheeks.

Virgil was at a loss. Dealing with overgrown, love-struck, bawling men was way outside his realm of experience. This was not a rescue that he'd ever envisaged International Rescue performing. "Ah… Would you like a coffee?" Without waiting for an answer he went into the kitchenette and started making a drink, tipping the remainder of his weekend's supply into Butch's cup. "Do you want sugar?"

"I want Lisa back…"

As he waited for the water to boil, Virgil tried to think of something intelligent to say. "Do you know where she might have gone?"

"P'rhaps her mother's. Bud I rang there!"

"And she wasn't there?"

"Dunno. Mrs Riley slammed the phone down. WhadamI gonna do, Virgil? I can't go home. Not when it's empty. Nod when Lisa's not there."

Virgil wasn't about to offer to let him stay in his apartment. He only had the one bed and that was earmarked for his own use… as soon as possible. "Haven't you got a friend you can stay with?" he asked as he handed over a steaming hot cup of coffee. "At least until Lisa's cooled down and you two can talk."

"No." Butch let rip with a sniff that could have sucked the pile off Virgil's carpet. "I don' have any friends. I thought the Skulz waz my friends an' look whad they did! I got nowhere to go." He looked beseechingly at Virgil who did his best not to weaken.

Virgil sat on the edge of his bed, barely touched since the day before. "Are you sure there's no one? No one in your family you can ask?"

"No." Butch drained his cup, seemingly impervious to the heat, and held the empty mug out. "'Nother?"

"Yeah, sure… Uh," Virgil remembered the empty canister. "But I haven't got any more. I'll have to go to the shops and get some. Do you want to wait here until I get back…? I won't be long."

Butch gave such a forlorn nod that Virgil felt a pang of guilt. He ran his fingers through his hair and his eyes fell on one of his photographs. "I know! Would you like to talk to Grandma?"

"Mrs T?" Butch looked brighter. "She in town?"

"No, but I can get her on the phone. Here…" before Butch had the opportunity to change his mind, Virgil slid in front of his videophone and pressed the speed-dial, making sure the video link was set for sound only.

"Virgil! I've been trying to ring you and all I'm getting is your voicemail. Are you all right? Your father told me about last night. What happened? Are you hurt? Are the police going to lay charges…?"

Virgil stopped his grandmother's flow of questions. "I'm fine, Grandma. I'll tell you all about it later. But would you mind talking to Butch?"

"Butch? Why? Where is he?"

"He's here. Lisa's left him…"

"Oh, my! Put him on, Virgil… And put the video on; I want to see him."

Virgil stepped out of the line of the video camera and gestured that Butch should take his seat.

The big man sat down heavily. "H-Hello, M-Mrs T…" and he burst into tears.

"Now, Cyril. Tell me what happened..."

Virgil made good his escape. When he slid back behind his steering wheel every bone, muscle and fibre in his body were telling him to recline the seat back and have a sleep. Instead he set the car in motion and drove to the shops. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, the car park was fairly full and he had trouble finding a parking space. He eventually slotted the car in to a spot and got out. As he locked up he could hear arguing voices, but like most of the people out and about, he ignored them. He was going to get his coffee, get out of there, and, with any luck, get rid of Butch.

The voices grew louder; a woman's more strident and aggressive than the others. "Leggo me!"

Virgil started walking down the gentle incline to the shop.

The perpetrators of the argument came into view. The woman, dressed in jeans and t-shirt, blonde pony tail swinging, and, even though it was still morning, clearly drunk, was being supported by the two security guards as she was being escorted off the premises. She was not happy about proceedings. "Leave me 'lone!"

Virgil stood and stared. "Lisa?" Neither she nor the security guards had seen him and he briefly considered ensuring that it stayed that way. Then he stepped closer. "Lisa? Are you all right?"

Lisa stared at him with unfocused eyes as the female security officer scrutinised him, probably thinking that she wasn't surprised that anyone in his state knew the dead weight hanging off her arms. "Do you know this woman, Sir?"

"Yes. We work together."

"Thith man Virgil," Lisa introduced. "Thith man good man. Unlike my ex man."

"Your name's Virgil?" the male security guard confirmed.

"Yes, that's right."

"Do you know where this woman's next of kin resides?"

_Currently at my place._ "Uh… Yes."

The two guards looked at each other. "Good," the man grunted and unhooked Lisa's arm from around his neck. "Then you can take her." He pushed Lisa in Virgil's direction.

"Now hang on!" Virgil exclaimed. "I…" But the two guards were already making their way down to shopping complex; a job well done. He looked at the woman only just managing to maintain her balance before him. "Lisa," he sighed.

She giggled.

"What am I going to do with you?"

"I have a suggestion," she enunciated, taking a wobbly step so she was pressed up against him. "We could go back to your place and…" she gave a suggestive wink.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Virgil replied, edging back slightly.

"Awww. C'mon, Virgie." Lisa looped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. "You 'n me? Wouldn' you like that?"

"No!" At this moment Virgil couldn't think of anything less appealing and Lisa looked hurt at his rebuttal. "We can't go back to my place. There's someone there."

"Who? Is your gwandmotha there?"

"No. Butch is."

"Him!" Lisa pushed off Virgil and turned away. "Don' wanna see _him_!" She started staggering back down the incline.

"Lisa, he's really upset," Virgil told her. "He's devastated that you've left him."

"Tough." Lisa spun about on the spot to face him and struggled to maintain her balance. "I tol' him… I tol' him I'd leave him if there waz trouble."

"I know you did."

She waggled her finger at him. "There waz trouble."

Virgil, and his various aches and pains, was well aware of that.

"So that's that…" Lisa made a cutting movement horizontally through the air and only just managed to keep her footing. "That's that. I'm finished. I'm not goin' bac'. I tol' him that. That's that."

"I know," Virgil admitted. "He told me."

"I tol' him that I want th' house an' the work car, but he can keep the Red-Arrow. I'm gone fer good."

"You don't mean that," Virgil protested.

"Oh, yes I do. He can keep the Wed … Ret… The sportsta… An' I hope they'll be very happy together." She started her downhill trek again.

"Lisa!" Virgil grabbed her by the arm. "You can't go back in there."

"Then where'm I gonna go?" Lisa whined. "Don' wanna go home… alone." That suggestive gleam infiltrated her eye again. "Course, if you waz to come with me…" She leant against Virgil again. "You a han'some man, Virgil Tracy…" She went slightly cross-eyed in thought and then giggled. "I jus' called you Virgil 'Tracy'…" She giggled again. "Jus' like our great white leader." She did a mock salute, nearly overbalancing in the process. "Mind you. You jus' like him." She tapped Virgil on his muscular chest. "You'r' both lookers an' you'r' both _built_." She put her arms about him again.

Under normal circumstances, Virgil, who was more likely to be compared to his mother than his father, would have found the comparison to be extremely flattering. But having a drunken women hanging like a leech off his neck didn't qualify as normal circumstances. "Lisa!" he said firmly. "We are _not_ going back to your place."

"Awww." Lisa pouted. "Don' you wanna have some fun?"

Not knowing what else to do, Virgil guided the unsteady woman back to his car. Deciding that it would be too easy for her to cause trouble from the front seat, he opened the rear passenger-side door. "Get in."

Lisa sat down. "Ohh. The back seat. Can't wait, huh?" She reached up and pulled Virgil down on top of her.

He gave a slight yelp of pain and struggled free. "No! We are not going to do… that. Do your seatbelt up."

"Oh…kay." All fingers and thumbs, Lisa struggled with the harness as Virgil waited impatiently. Eventually she gave up. "Can you do it for me?" she asked, gazing up at him in what she considered to be an appealing manner.

Virgil hesitated. "So long as you don't try anything."

Lisa gave an emphatic drunken nod. "I won't."

Virgil leant into the car and, trying not to inhale the alcoholic fumes she exuded. If they got pulled over, which, judging by his present run of luck, seemed to be extremely likely, he'd probably be over the limit without a drop of drink touching his lips. He fastened her seatbelt; almost surprised that she didn't try another move on him until he stood up and realised that she had fallen asleep. He hoped that she wasn't going to be sick inside his car.

Forgetting the coffee he'd originally come for, Virgil slid into the driver's seat and pondered for a moment. Now what should he do? Take her to her place? Take her to her mother's place? He didn't know where that was. Take her home to his place and Butch?

Virgil decided that the Crumps were right royal pains in the neck… arms… back…

He set the car into gear.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Come on, Lisa," Virgil said, tugging gently at her arm. "Let's get you inside."

"Where we?" she asked, trying to focus on the garage's fixtures and fittings.

"My place."

"Oh!" Lisa giggled. "Change your mind, huh?"

"Nope." Virgil's hope was that Butch would still be talking to Grandma. If anyone could get the two Crumps talking sense, it was Mrs Tracy. He didn't want to consider what could happen if Butch had left the house.

"Then why are we here?" Lisa demanded, leaning on his arm.

"I want you to talk to Grandma."

"Oh…" Lisa hiccoughed. "She' nice. I like her."

"So do I." Virgil unlocked the door.

Butch was seated at the videophone, still communicating with Grandma Tracy, and he turned when the door slid open. "Lisa!"

"Butch?"

"Lisa…"

"Butch…"

"Lisa…" Butch held out his arms to the woman he loved.

"Butch!" Forgetting Virgil, Lisa ran into her husband's embrace.

They kissed…

…

And kissed…

…

And kissed some more.

"Everyone happy?" Virgil asked.

His words washed over the oblivious couple.

"Don't you want to go home now?"

There was no reply.

"Home…? You know…? Your place…?"

He may as well have been invisible.

"Right," Virgil said. "If you're okay I'll… I'll go for drive… somewhere… Um… Lock the door when you leave."

There still wasn't a response.

"Okay… See you later…" Virgil hesitated and then, with more than a little reluctance and one last longing look at his bed, left the apartment. Not knowing what else to do, he retreated to his car and climbed into the back seat, folding his tall frame nearly double so he could at least lie down for sleep…

*_Ring. Ring._*

"What!" Virgil stared at the video console in the car's cockpit. "I don't believe this!"

*_Ring. Ring._*

"Why can't I be left alone…?"

*_Ring. Ring._*

"…Sleep! A few hours sleep…"

*_Ring. Ring._*

"…Is that too much to ask?" Virgil left the back seat and slammed his way into the front, seriously considering turning the car on so the mobile communications unit would be inoperable. Grumbling to himself he initiated contact, only just managing to remain civil. "Hi, Grandma."

If Mrs Tracy was horrified by the injuries to his face she didn't show it. "Hello, Honey. Where are you?"

"In my car, trying to sleep. Someone…!" Virgil made a movement in the general direction of his house, "has kicked me out of my home!"

"I know. They're in there making out… ah, up."

"Have you still got the videophone turned on?!"

She gave him an impish grin that reminded him of Gordon's. "I thought I could let you know when they left." The grin reversed itself slightly into a frown. "But you might have to change your sheets when you get home…"

"What!"

"… And get new springs for your bed."

Horrified, Virgil gaped at her. "They're not…! Are they?"

"Well… I know that it's been a few years since your grandfather was alive, but…"

"And you're still listening? Grandma!"

"I've turned the volume down and I can't see anything. I'll know when…"

Virgil held up an arresting hand. "Don't say any more, Grandma," he demanded. "I don't want to think about that."

"I was going to say, I'll know when they leave because I'll see them walk past the camera…" Virgil started to put his seat belt on. "Where are you going?"

"To buy a new bed!"

She clucked her tongue. "Now, Virgil. Don't be silly."

"Silly?! That's my bed! I'm the one who should be in it…! Alone! Not those two… I…" Exhausted, Virgil fell back against his seat.

"You look tired," Grandma pointed out; unnecessarily in Virgil's opinion. "You're not thinking clearly. Why don't you go and stay at the Mickelsons'?"

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Uncle Hamish is my boss!"

"Edna isn't your boss. And she'll be most hurt if she thinks you don't want her help."

"But, Grandma!"

"But nothing, Virgil. I'm hanging up this phone now and I expect you to drive straight around to the Mickelsons'."

Virgil hung his head. At least he should be assured of some peace and quiet at Aunty Edna's. "All right, Grandma."

"Good boy. Call me when you're feeling better, I want to hear all about last night."

Virgil finished the phone call and then started the car. He didn't want to impose on anybody… even though others didn't seem to mind imposing on him…

He pulled up outside the Mickelsons' well appointed home and got out of the car. He was really starting to seize up now. If Aunty Edna wasn't going to let him stay then there was nothing else for it but to crawl back to his car and sleep there on the side of the road. He didn't think he could make it to a hotel. He rang the doorbell.

The door was opened almost instantly by Edna Mickelson. She didn't appear to be surprised by his appearance. "Come in, Virgil."

"I don't want to impose, Aunty Edna, but could I crash on your couch for a few hours? My…"

"Don't be silly. Your grandmother's explained it all to me and I've made up the spare bed. You're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

Grateful beyond words, Virgil allowed himself to be led through the house into a bedroom in which the bed stood in pride of place, its sheets turned down invitingly. It was then that he realised something. "I've haven't brought my pyjamas."

"Now, don't you worry about that. I've found some of Hamish's that he hasn't worn. They won't fit a strapping young man like you, but they'll do. And there's a robe," she added indicating the heavy tartan material. "Get into those and give me your clothes and I'll put them through the wash."

"But I don't want to put you out," Virgil protested. "All I need is to get some sleep."

Edna folded her arms and glared at him. She might have been of his father's generation, but there was a lot of his grandmother in her. "Virgil!"

He held up an appeasing hand. "Okay, okay." He gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. "You're an angel."

"Don't feel that you have to get up for lunch. Come out when you're ready, and I'll heat something up."

Virgil brightened. "You're feeding me too? This almost makes getting beaten to a pulp worthwhile."

"Oh, dear… Do you want something to eat now?" she offered.

"No, thanks."

"Anything else?" She placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Pain-killers?"

"The police doctor gave me some," Virgil pulled a vial out of a torn pocket, but at the moment I'm that tired that I don't think I'll need them. Thanks anyway."

She patted his arm. "That's good. I'll leave you to it. If you need anything give me a call."

Virgil smiled at her as she left and then turned to face the bed. He had everything he needed here.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Virgil…" There was a gentle tap on the door. "Virgil?" The door opened. "I'm sorry… Are you awake?"

"Mmmn?" It seemed to be very hard to drag himself from the depths of slumber. "Whatzit?"

"I'm sorry," Edna apologised again, "but Mr Kirby's here to see you."

Virgil frowned as his brain took its time awakening. "Who?"

"Your lawyer."

"Huh?" Something clicked into place in Virgil's brain. "Oh…" He attempted to sit up on the side of the bed and sucked in his breath as every muscle complained.

"I'm sorry," Edna repeated a third time, laying the robe beside him on the bed. "Do you want a pain-killer before you see him?"

Virgil shook his head. He'd never been a huge fan of pain-killers, preferring to leave them as a last resort.

"He's in the lounge," Edna explained. "I'll give him a cup of coffee and tell him you'll be out in a minute."

"Thanks, Aunty Edna."

Mr Kirby, looking as immaculate as he had in the wee small hours of the morning and making Virgil feel even more dishevelled, was sitting on the couch sipping a cup of coffee when Virgil finally managed to struggle to the lounge. "Mr Kirby."

"Mr Tracy." The tiniest of smiles crept onto Mr Kirby's face. "How are you feeling this evening?"

"Evening?" Virgil went to look at his watch and then remembered that it was a useless pile of electronics back in his apartment. "Is it?"

Mr Kirby obviously accepted that as an answer to his question, for he didn't wait for elucidation. "I will come straight to the point, Mr Tracy. The charges against you have been dropped."

"Dropped?" Virgil started to smile until he felt the edges of his split lip pull apart. "That's great! Why?"

"The overwhelming evidence showed that you were an innocent victim of gang violence."

Intrigued, Virgil couldn't help asking, "What evidence?"

"Witness testimony. Security video. Also the video filmed by a young man at the party."

"Jacob," Virgil remembered. He gave a wry chuckle. "I'd bribed him to blank out my face before he showed anyone the video. I'd ask for my money back, expect that I think he's earned it as a reward."

Mr Kirby gave him a curious look. "There is enough evidence to convict the men responsible. You are completely exonerated."

Virgil was growing happier by the minute. "So does that mean that they won't keep my fingerprints or anything? My details won't be on file?"

"That is correct…" Mr Kirby was looking at a file. "I take it that that is your car parked outside."

"The silver one that's been to the same panel beaters I have? Yes, that's it."

"There is video evidence of members of the gang attacking it. Do you wish to press charges?"

"Can I do that and maintain anonymity?"

"Yes…" Bill Kirby frowned. "You seem very, ah, keen to keep out of the system? Is there a reason?"

"Not really," Virgil lied. "But I've already got one big brother who can't stop keeping an eye on me; I don't need the State doing it as well."

"You may be asked to testify at the trial," Mr Kirby informed him. "But, if you wish, we can apply for name suppression."

Virgil nodded, the potential repercussions for International Rescue if his face got into the media at the forefront of his mind. "Yes, please. I know my father will appreciate his name not being caught up in this too."

"Understood." The wishes of one of the world's richest were not to be dismissed. "Mr Tracy was very relieved to hear that you have been exonerated."

Virgil was surprised and a little bit annoyed. "You've already told him?"

Mr Kirby gave what was, for him, a smirk. "He is paying my fee."

"Oh," chastened, Virgil sat back. "Right… Ah, can I ask about my friends? Do their charges still stand?"

"Mr Sanders and Mr Crump? No. In fact Mr Sanders' assault will in all probability lead to more serious charges being laid against his assailant."

"Have Bruce and Butch been told?"

"Mr Sanders has been informed. We have not been able to contact Mr Crump."

"There's every possibility that you'll find him at my place," Virgil said, grimly.

Mr Kirby snapped his briefcase shut and stood. "Since our business is concluded at this juncture, I will wish you good day, Mr Tracy."

Virgil, with an effort, got to his feet. "Thank you, Mr Kirby."

Mr Kirby noted Virgil's stiffness. "I will let myself out. Please thank Mrs Mickelson for an excellent cup of coffee."

He was able to do that himself as Edna Mickelson, bustling about to make sure that all was well, escorted him to the door. Then she returned to the lounge. "What did he say?"

"Good news," Virgil beamed, and then dabbed his hand against the lip that had started bleeding. "I'm cleared of all charges. So are Bruce and Butch."

Edna clapped her hands together. "Oh, that's marvellous! Do you feel like joining us for dinner to celebrate?"

To his surprise, Virgil realised that he was hungry and he accepted her offer. After enjoying the main course and declining dessert, he wished both of the Mickelson's a good night and retired to the spare room.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The following morning he was awoken by muted whisperings outside his door.

"You are _not_ going to disturb him, Hamish!"

"He might be feeling well enough to go to work, Edna. He might simply have slept in…"

"Did he look well enough last night?!"

"No…"

"Well then!"

"But I'm his boss, it would be seen a favouritism if I let him laze about when just because he's Jeff's son."

"And it'll be seen as reverse discrimination if you force him to go to work just _because_ he's Jeff's son! You saw him. He wasn't well enough for seconds of his dinner, let alone dessert!" This was close to high treason and Virgil decided then that he'd have to have seconds tonight, maybe even thirds, to say thanks to Aunty Edna.

He fancied he heard a resigned sigh. "Very well, Edna. When he wakes up tell him I've put his apologies in."

Smiling to himself, Virgil nuzzled deeper into his pillow and fell back into a deep sleep.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The following morning Virgil felt well enough to decide that he had imposed on the Mickelsons for long enough. He got up early and left a note saying thank you, explaining that he was going to work, and promising to call Aunty Edna at the first tea break.

Virgil drove home and pulled into the garage. It was only when he was stepping out of the car that he remembered something… or rather realised that he couldn't remember something! He'd been working on International Rescue plans before he'd left for the party and he couldn't remember putting them back in the safe. Butch and Lisa would have had plenty of time to find and read them…

In a fevered rush Virgil unlocked the door. He'd been working on the plans on the coffee table, which was bare. Hoping against hope that his paranoia had meant that he'd automatically placed the plans securely in the safe he raced over to the wall and, fumbling the lock, threw open the door…

The incriminating documents were sitting placidly on top of all the others.

Virgil shut the safe and leant against the wall to regain his breath and sense of equilibrium. He surveyed his apartment. It was neat and tidy, including the bed, which he stared at in some distaste and decided that he had a need to go shopping for furniture after work. Then he made himself breakfast.

His mood darkened when he remembered that he had never bought his coffee. He picked up the canister and gave it a shake, more out of hope than optimism, and was surprised to discover that it felt full. Opening it, he savoured the aroma of fresh coffee, before making himself a cup.

Feeling better after a dose of caffeine he got dressed, choosing a shirt with a high collar and long sleeves to hide most of the bruises, cuts and grazes. It was only then that he noticed the note on his pillow. It was written in Lisa's delicate hand:

_Dear Virgil_

_Are you all right? We've been waiting for you to return home, but had to leave to clean up the hall after last night. Please call us as soon as you get in._

Virgil looked at the clock. No point doing that now, they'd be getting ready for work.

_You were out of coffee so we've replaced it. I hope you like the brand. I've changed the sheets on your bed. I'm afraid that we slept in it while we were waiting for you to come home._

Virgil could imagine the effort that had gone into the composition of that phrase.

_We understand if you don't want anything to do with us after what happened, but please call, whatever the hour and let us know you're all right. We've been so worried. It's our fault that you were hurt and got arrested. I didn't even thank you for trying to diffuse the situation._

_Hoping that you can forgive us for everything._

_Your friends_

_Lisa and Butch_

Virgil placed the note on his table, grabbed and checked his bag, and then prepared himself to answer endless questions at work…

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

He got there in plenty of time and was standing in the car park surveying the damage to his vehicle when he heard his name called. He turned as a pair of arms were flung about him, causing him to yelp in pain. "Lisa!"

"Oh, Virgil!" Horrified at what she'd done Lisa took a step backwards. "I'm sorry… So sorry. Oh… Look at you!" and Virgil had an uncomfortable feeling that she was about to burst into tears as she indicated his face. "This is our fault."

"Are ya alright, Pal?" Butch asked; his brutish features creased in genuine concern. "We ain't heard from ya in days. I asked Mega if he'd heard anythin' an' he said that all he'd heard was that ya wouldn't be in yesterday."

"But no explanation as to why you were away," Lisa added. "Not that he'd tell us anyway."

"I'm okay," Virgil soothed. "Aunty Edna insisted that I stay with her. I only went home this morning to get ready for work… Thanks for the coffee by the way," he added.

"It's the least we could do," Lisa replied. "And tell your father that we'll repay him for the legal costs."

Virgil chuckled. "He tells me that I'd never be able to afford to repay him, so I doubt you would be able to. Don't worry about it. If he insists on repayment, which I doubt he'll do, I'll take care of it."

"But we couldn't ask you to do that," Lisa insisted. "You've done too much already. Isn't that right, Butch?"

"Righ'," Butch agreed. "We c'n get the money."

"Are you going to be able to work?" Lisa asked, convinced that Virgil's injuries were indirectly her fault.

"If I stick to light duties… I never thought I'd be looking forward to using that linisher," Virgil admitted. "I… ah… I take it that everything's all right between you two?" he asked, remembering what had been overheard in his apartment.

The way Lisa reddened made him think that she was remembering that too. "Yes. Thanks to you and your grandmother."

"I'm never goin' to have anythin' to do with the Skulz again," Butch declared. "Me 'n Lisa have been talkin' an' I'm gonna get my tats removed. All except this one, of course." He placed his hand over his heart and the tattoo that read 'Lisa'." His wife smiled up at him, nuzzling closer.

"That's a good start," Virgil agreed. "But isn't that rather expensive? Can you afford it?"

Butch pulled himself up to his full height. "I'm goin' to sell the Red-Arrow Sportster."

Virgil felt his mouth drop open. "But you love that car!"

"Yep. But I love this girl more," Butch gave Lisa an affectionate squeeze. "I nearly lost 'er twice. I ain't gonna lose her again."

Virgil had an idea. "Well, when you've thought of a price let me know. I might be interested in buying her… The car I mean, not Lisa."

The Crumps laughed…

---F-A-B---

Max Watts wasn't laughing when Virgil found him in the factory. "I hope you've got a good explanation for your absence yesterday!"

Virgil hesitated. _I wasn't feeling up to it_ wasn't a good excuse. But then neither was _I was involved in a fight on Saturday night, nearly got myself beaten to death, and ended up arrested by the police._ Instead he handed over the sick note he'd been given by the police surgeon.

Watts read it, but clearly knew more than the docket disclosed. "So, you've been fighting, have you?"

"Defending myself and Bruce," Virgil clarified, deciding that it was better to keep the Crumps out of it. "We were set upon by a gang. Bruce was knocked out, which is why…"

"Save the sob story," Watts snarled. "It says here that you're only to be doing light duties."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "I'm sorry…"

"So you should be! We're a busy company. We can't afford to have people take time off unnecessarily and then expect to not pull their weight."

"I would if I could…"

"What do you think Mr Tracy would think if he knew he had a brawler in his employment? What would he say?"

Virgil already knew what Jeff had to say about the subject and so said nothing. He was directed to the linisher and supplied with a large bin of components.

It wasn't an easy day. He managed to get to morning tea without too much complaint and then avoided most of his colleagues by using the videophone in his car to ring Aunty Edna to thank her for her hospitality and to apologise for leaving without saying goodbye.

Between 10.00 and 12.00 was a hard grind. Made harder by the way the Production Manger seemed to be on Virgil's case; always checking up on his work, always sniping about the poor workmanship (although Virgil was making a point of doing a good job), and always hinting that ACE could employ better, more responsible workers. Virgil reflected that the increased respect that Watts had shown him after he'd saved Lisa's life had been short lived.

Lunchtime eventually rolled around and Virgil sat at his usual seat; alone at the table without Bruce. But he wasn't alone for long as most of his workmates wanted to know exactly what had happened on the Saturday night. He gave a sanitised version of events, playing up Bruce's heroics and playing down his own. Then Butch came along, gave Virgil a slap on the back that nearly brought tears to his eyes, and recounted a tale that made Virgil seem to be one step short of Superman. Everyone was late back to work after lunch and, by the way that he was glaring at Virgil, Max Watts left no doubt as to whom he blamed for the workforce's tardiness.

12.30 to 2.50 was such a struggle that Virgil didn't bother with his afternoon tea and instead rang Aunty Edna. "I hope you haven't changed those sheets yet, because, if you'll let me," he begged, "I'd like to stay the night at your place again."

"Of course, Virgil. I told you, you were more than welcome to stay as long as you needed."

"I'll have to go home and pack some things first."

"I expect to see you when I see you. I'll have dinner ready for 7.30."

"Thanks, Aunty Edna."

By the time that final bell rang out, Virgil had endured one of the longest days at ACE that he could remember. Longer even than those first days when he'd been a friendless outcast. It had only been the tenacity and determination that would serve him so well with International Rescue that had kept him going…

"Can I help you, Virgil?"

"Huh?" Virgil had been staring at the bag in his locker, wondering if he had the strength to lift it. "Sorry. What was that, Greg?"

Gregory Harrison was looking at him in concern. "You look exhausted!"

Virgil considered saying that he was all right, but didn't have the energy to lie. "It's been a long day."

"Let me drive you home."

Virgil managed a smile. "Thanks. But I'll be okay."

Greg looked at him the same way that he evaluated a finished unit… searching out hidden flaws and deficiencies. "Look… I don't mind helping. I don't have to hurry home; my wife's away visiting her sister. And I've walked to work, so I don't have to worry about my car. Let me drive you home, Virgil. I won't feel happy letting you behind the wheel in that state."

Beaten, Virgil nodded his thanks. "Except I'm not going home… I'm staying the night at Aunty Edna's."

"Aunty Edna's?" Greg looked around to ensure they were alone in the locker room. "You mean Edna Mickelson's?"

"Yes… But I've got to pick up some gear from home first."

"Come on then," Greg lifted Virgil's bag from out of the locker. "Let's get going. With any luck I might be able to score one of your Aunty Edna's famous meals."

When they reached Virgil's apartment, Greg insisted that Virgil take his time getting himself together and Virgil insisted that Greg make himself a coffee and relax.

Greg took his steaming mug over to the couch. He glanced at the videophone as he walked past. "Looks like you've got thirteen messages…"

"Let's see…" Virgil counted off on his fingers. "It's been three days since the party. Three brothers…"

Greg looked surprised. "Three?"

"John's up in the space station. He can't make phone calls so he'll have emailed… Three threes are nine…" Virgil gave Greg a wry look. "Plus an extra call from each of them yesterday to find out why I hadn't reported in yet, so that's twelve."

"And the thirteenth?"

"Will be my tutor to let me know if I can re-sit the exam I forgot Sunday."

"I'm in no hurry if you want to listen to them," Greg stated.

"I'm pretty sure I already know what my brothers will say. Scott'll be doing his worried-big-brother bit and Gordon and Alan will be in their element teasing me."

Greg chuckled. "Well. Let's find out… That's unless you'd rather I didn't listen."

"No, I'm sure it'll be fine." Virgil pushed the 'replay messages' button and, as expected, they listened through a succession of Tracy phone calls. Scott was first out of the blocks, checking that all was well, offering to fly out for help and support immediately, and expressing a desire to get his hands on the miscreants. Alan and Gordon were much more relaxed about the whole affair. They showed their obvious concern, but that concern was tempered with jokes at Virgil's expense.

Then they heard Monday's calls. The first was Scott again, more relaxed this time. "He knows I was staying with the Mickelsons," Virgil explained. Then it was Wayne Morris telling Virgil that he'd been given an extension and the revised date for his exam was in a week's time. "That's a relief." Following that announcement first Alan, and then Gordon, took the opportunity to check up on their big brother again. After another two rounds of Tracy siblings telling Virgil to report in, the phone went dead.

"Do you want to call them back?" Greg asked.

"I think I'll email them," Virgil replied. "They'll all expect a full explanation otherwise and we'll never get out of here!"

"You said that Edna won't have dinner ready for you until 7.30pm." Greg checked his watch. "We've got plenty of time. You check your emails and I'll give her a call to let her know that you haven't dropped off the face of the earth."

"And get yourself an invitation to dinner," Virgil teased.

"That didn't cross my mind," Greg replied in mock innocence.

Virgil's inbox was filled with email, this time from four concerned brothers. John's was the longest, expressing the sentiment that he wished he hadn't been orbiting about the earth when his brother had needed him. After reading it all, Virgil quickly composed a bulk email telling everyone to stop worrying about him and that he'd be at the Mickelsons' tonight enjoying Aunty Edna's hospitality. He pushed 'send'. "There. That'll keep them happy for about five minutes."

"Good." Greg stood. "Are you ready to go?"

All of a sudden Virgil felt the lethargic feeling that he'd been dealing with at ACE return with a vengeance. He gave a tired nod. "I guess so."

Greg fixed him with a concerned frown. "Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should see someone?"

"No, I'm fine. Like I said before, it's been a long day."

Greg gave a non-committal grunt. "Well, don't forget that your health's more important than anything else. If you don't feel up to going to work tomorrow, don't go! Your father will understand, even if Max Watts doesn't want to."

Virgil actually managed to doze off in the car as they drove to the Mickelsons'. He awoke when he felt the vehicle do the sharp turn into the driveway.

Edna Mickelson came bustling out of the house. "Greg! It's so wonderful to see you again. You and Mavis have been strangers for too long."

"Good to see you, Edna," Greg grinned. "I've brought you a homeless waif to nurture." He indicated Virgil.

"Hi, Aunty Edna."

"If you feel like a shower before dinner, Virgil, there's plenty of hot water. I've left towels in your bathroom. Take as long as you want. Greg and I can entertain each other until Hamish gets home and dinner's ready."

Greg raised an amused eyebrow. "Entertain each other? Just what do you have in mind, Edna Mickelson?"

"Greg Harrison! You always were a flirt… How is Mavis?"

Virgil left the pair of them enjoying their playful banter and retreated to the haven of the shower. The warm, massaging spray was like an elixir of life and Virgil allowed it to play over his aching muscles wishing he could stay in there for ever. It was only the thought of Aunty Edna's delicious repast and the desire not to waste his friends' water and electricity that finally coaxed him out. When he emerged from the en-suite he almost felt human again.

The meal was an enjoyable one, spiced up by Edna's cooking and the company present.

Greg cast an enquiring look in Virgil's direction. "What really happened last Saturday?"

Virgil, who had been trying to work out how much more of the main course he could have and still leave room for at least one helping of dessert, hesitated. "Butch and I told everyone at work, didn't we?"

"I've heard two versions of what happened the other night, and I have a feeling that neither of them was strictly accurate. But if you don't want to talk about it, then I understand."

"No, that's okay…" As he helped himself to seconds, Virgil started recounting events, treating it as if it were a debriefing, not embellishing anything, but not playing it down either. His tale was punctuated with exclamations from his audience. "So you see; I didn't do anything special. I was basically trying to protect myself and the others." He dug his fork into the mashed potatoes and savoured their creamy texture.

"I don't know why the authorities don't do something about people like that," Edna huffed. "They're a menace to society."

"I think that's one group that's going to be out of society's hair for quite some time," her husband hypothesised. "At least I hope so."

"Poor Lisa. She must have been mortified at what happened," Edna stated. "And on her wedding anniversary too…! More peas, Greg?"

Greg accepted the bowl. "She's a good worker... an excellent worker, but that girl's trouble. Max Watts daren't get her to work with half the young men at ACE simply because they pay more attention to Lisa than they do their work. The sooner she gets pregnant and leaves the company the better."

"Why, Greg Harrison!" Edna scolded. "What a sexist thing to say! It's not Lisa's fault that those young men aren't mature enough to look on her as a co-worker and not as a… a… sex object! Why should she have to leave work just because of them!? It's not her fault that she's an exceedingly beautiful young lady, it's…"

Greg held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa! Edna! I take it all back. I unreservedly retract that statement. You're right of course. What I should have said was that I wish all those young men who ogle her should get pregnant and leave, so Lisa can work unmolested. Is that better?" Edna laughed and, after a moment's hesitation, Hamish and Virgil joined in.

"I still can't work out what she sees in Butch," Hamish said, steering the conversation away from the more controversial subject. "They're like chalk and cheese those two. He's an excellent worker too, but seems to have the personality of this salt shaker." He applied some of the seasoning.

"He's actually quite an interesting guy to talk to if you can see past the tattoos and manage to find a subject he's interested in," Virgil commented. "He looks tough, but he's really a big marshmallow… except when it comes to protecting Lisa," he added, remembering Butch's furious attack on Muzz. "He's scared he's going to lose her again, so he's doing everything he can to show that he's renouncing the Skulz."

"If he wants to appear more cultured, he could always have 'alleyqueshun' lessons." Hamish laughed. "I'm sure your father could recommend a good teacher. Did Jeff ever tell you that story, Greg?"

"No."

"You didn't know him before he started ACE, did you? He had a very strong Kansas accent. When he started with the Space Agency, the PR department wanted to knock it out of him for publicity purposes. The guy in charge proposed that he take 'alleyqueshun' lessons."

Greg stared at his boss and friend. "Jeff Tracy let someone tell _him_ to do something?"

"Oh, yes. In those days he was a pretty 'by the book, obey the chain of command' kind of guy. It's only when he had to fend for himself and his kids that he let his real personality come through."

"Well, Butch Crump isn't Jeff Tracy," Edna stated. "It would need more than alleyqueshun lessons to make people take him seriously. Those tattoos of his make him seem more like a hoodlum."

"He says he's going to have most of them removed," Virgil offered. "He's going to sell his Red-Arrow Sportster to pay for it."

"He's got a Red-Arrow?" Greg asked. "I didn't know that. That model's a classic."

"This one's in mint condition too," Virgil told him. "I said that if he does sell it, I'd buy it off him. I'm dying to have a good look at the engine, but I think asking Butch that would be akin to asking him if I could see Lisa naked."

"But you're going to live on an island, Virgil," Edna said. "What on earth could you do with a car there? Run it up and down the runway?"

"I did think of giving it to Alan for Christmas," Virgil admitted. "But, as you said, it's not going to be of much use on the island. Then I thought that I'd sell it back to the Crumps for a couple of hundred dollars before I move."

"You're going to buy the car, and pay a reasonable price I suppose," Edna commented and Virgil nodded. "And then you're going to sell it back for a fraction of its cost?"

"That's right."

She tutted. "You boys have obviously got no concept of the value of money!"

"But Aunty Edna, what's the use of having money if you can't do something good with it? What's wrong with helping a friend out? They'd never accept the money outright."

"That may well be true, but I still think it's a waste." She huffed. "I'm going to have to have words with your father."

"Edna, honey, you're going to be talking to Jeff Tracy, remember?" Hamish said. "I guarantee that he'll think that Virgil's doing the right thing. He'd probably buy the car himself if he thought it would help the Crumps out. You know what he's like."

Edna scowled at her empty plate. "Is everyone ready for dessert?" She collected together the plates and left the table.

There was a moments silence as the men tried to think of non-confrontational topic of conversation. "So… Virgil," Greg Harrison began. "Do you think you'll be up to coming in to work tomorrow?"

Virgil nodded. "I'll be fine..." He smiled up at his hostess as a bowl was placed in front of him. "Thanks, Aunty Edna… So long as Mr Watts leaves me alone to get on with the job. I thought I'd finally won his respect after I helped save Lisa's life and now, after last weekend, I'm back to square one again. He practically accused me of deliberately getting involved in the fight as if I'm irresponsible enough to take on a biker gang. I try to do my work to the best of my abilities and he still treats me like…" Greg cleared his throat and Virgil froze; remembering exactly who he was dining with. "Ah… I hope it was Uncle Hamish listening then; not Mr Mickelson."

"It was Mr Mickelson," Hamish Mickelson growled. "What are you saying, Virgil?"

"I'm, ah…" Virgil was feeling trapped by his own words. "I'm saying that I'm… ah… feeling tired… It's been a long day…" he finished, hopeful that the conversation would be left there and forgotten.

He wasn't that lucky. "Do you have an issue with Mr Watts' leadership?"

"Well… In general… no," Virgil prevaricated. "He's a clever engineer… I guess that he and I don't exactly, um, get along. You know how some people can't take to each other…? You know what I mean…?" He peered hopefully at the man he regarded as an uncle. "I don't want to cause any trouble. Mr Watts doesn't know that I'm Jeff Tracy's son."

"Who you are and who you're related to shouldn't have any bearing on the way Max Watts treats you. Are you saying that there are some issues with the way he treats employees?"

"Now, Hamish." Edna sat down at the table. "That's enough shop talk for this evening. Find a topic of conversation that I can enjoy too. How's young Alan getting on with his racing, Virgil?"

The conversation settled down to more inoffensive topics and everyone enjoyed dessert. But still Virgil had a feeling that Hamish Mickelson was biding his time before he'd re-launch his enquiry into Max Watts' conduct. His worst fears were confirmed when, after the meal, Hamish offered to drive Greg home with a look that was easy to interpret as 'I want a word with you.' Virgil would have said something then except that for the third time that evening the wave of lassitude threatened to swamp him. Edna saw him sag and insisted that he forget about the dinner dishes and take himself off to bed. By the time he'd finished protesting that the least he could do was clear the table, the older men had already left.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil was feeling better when he arrived at work the following morning. He accepted his tasks for the day from Mr Watts without comment and from then on worked steadily, not daring to take a break until he heard the siren signal morning tea.

He was surprised to catch up with someone in the staff canteen. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be home in bed."

"I've done enough sleeping to last me a lifetime," Bruce Sanders complained. "I was bored so I asked them to give me something non-taxing to do. I'm helping out in the stores."

Virgil smiled. "Well, it's good to see you again. How're you feeling?"

"Okay," Bruce said, but there was something in his tone that negated that admission.

"What's wrong?"

"I've been thinking," Bruce admitted. "I've had nothing else to do these last few days so I've thought and thought and thought."

"Sounds dangerous," Virgil chuckled and took a sip of his coffee. "What have you been thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about quitting ACE."

"What!?" Virgil looked up from his coffee cup. "Why?"

"I've been thinking that your time here's nearly up and when you're gone I won't have any friends here."

"Huh?" Virgil frowned. "But you've got lots of friends here. There's Butch and Lisa and, at a pinch, Louis…"

Bruce opened his mouth to comment but was stopped when someone exclaimed his name. "Bruce! Are you all right?"

"Uh… Hi, Lisa," Bruce mumbled. "I'm fine."

"We've been worried about you," Lisa gushed. "Haven't we, Darling?" she asked Butch who, face creased in concern, had come to stand at her shoulder.

"Yeah," Butch agreed. "We was going to call an' see ya, but Leece said we should let you rest a coupla days."

"Thanks," Bruce was concentrating on his coffee. "But I'm fine now."

"Oh… Good." Lisa noticed his distracted behaviour. "I'm glad, Bruce. You had me worried." She placed a comforting hand on his arm and he pulled it away. She looked surprised, but made no comment. "I… ah… I guess you and Virgil want to chat, so Butch and I'll leave you alone."

"Thanks," Virgil said, wondering about his friend's strange behaviour. He observed Bruce as the latter watched the Crumps depart for another table. "What's wrong with you?!"

"Nothin'." Something in Bruce's expression rang alarm bells in Virgil's mind.

"Bruce…" he said: his voice sounding a warning.

"She's lovely," Bruce sighed.

"And she's happily married," Virgil reminded him. "You can't be falling for her!"

"Not falling," Bruce stated. "Fallen." He sighed again, looking over at the Crumps with the hang dog expression of a high school freshman lusting after the head cheerleader.

"You're asking for trouble," Virgil hissed. "Butch'll kill you!"

"I know. That's why I've got to leave ACE. I can't stay here working beside her; not without letting her know how I feel."

"When did this start?"

"Dunno. I mean, originally I was like any of the other guys here… except Winston, of course… I could only see how physically beautiful she was. I drooled over her as much as the next guy… except Winston… But these last few months I've got to know her better and now I know what she's really like… as a person… I mean… I saved her life, Virgil. Do you know what that feels like to save someone's life?"

"I've got a fair idea."

"And then, last Saturday evening, I saved her again… I protected her from those bikers… I could feel her trembling in my arms as I protected her…"

Virgil gave him a sideways look. "I thought you couldn't remember anything about the fight."

Bruce gave an unsteady wave. "I can remember bits and pieces. I remember looking into her eyes… and her looking into mine… And I could feel her heart beating… Our hearts beating together… I can remember leading her away from the fighting… I remember how grateful she was…"

What Virgil remembered seeing, in between Skulz out to kill him, was Lisa leading an injured Bruce. He was beginning to get worried.

"I mean, it's not fair on Lisa," Bruce continued, seemingly unaware of the role reversal, "having me working so close to her and not being able to do anything about it. I should go and tell her that it's impossible…" He made as if to stand, but Virgil put a hand out to stop him.

"I wouldn't tell her now," he advised, looking about to double-check that no one was within eavesdropping distance. "You don't want to create a scene at work."

"Yes, you're right," Bruce gave an energetic nod and then frowned putting his hand to his head. "Better wait until later."

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"I'm sure."

Despite Bruce's reassurances, Virgil had his doubts. He decided to redirect the conversation. "So… If you leave here after I leave ACE, where will you go?"

Bruce frowned. "Home."

"No, I mean where will you try to find work?"

"Work? I think I'll be too tired to work. I might just head home to… um… to… … What was I saying?"

Virgil stood. "You were saying you're feeling tired." He moved around to his friend's side. "How about I take you somewhere where you can lie down?" He helped Bruce to his feet.

"Lie down? Lie down… Yes, lie down," Bruce ranted. "That sounds like a good idea. Lie down…"

"Good. Then come with me… Leave that," Virgil advised as Bruce made to pick up his coffee cup. "I'll come back and clean up afterwards."

"You're a good friend, Virgil. A true friend," Bruce patted him on the chest. "A real friend."

"A real friend wouldn't have got you into this state," Virgil muttered as he led an unsteady Bruce towards the door. All eyes were on them, but he caught Greg Harrison's.

The older man left his seat. "Taking him to see the doctor?"

Virgil nodded. "I'll be back as quick as I can."

"I'll let Max Watts know."

"Thanks, Greg."

"Thanks, Greg," Bruce echoed. "Tell'm I'll be back as quick as I can too… Once I've had a lie down."

Greg gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'll do that, Bruce. You take care of yourself."

Virgil manoeuvred Bruce to the medical centre and, without waiting around, left him with an understanding doctor. Then he hurried back to his workstation, the end-of-break bell having already sounded…

"Tancy!"

Virgil stopped. Max Watts did not sound happy. "Yes, Mr Watts?"

"My office! Now!"

"Yes, Mr Watts." Virgil followed him into the fishbowl of a room.

"Shut the door!"

Virgil complied. This wasn't a good sign.

"Where have you been?"

"Taking Bruce Sanders to the doctor," Virgil explained. "I don't think he's recovered from his concussion yet. I did tell…"

"Oh, you've told lots of people lots of things, haven't you, Tancy?" Watts said and Virgil's heart sank. Hamish Mickelson must have spoken to the Production Manager about last night's dinner conversation. "I suppose you feel pretty special; having friends in high places."

"No, Sir… uh… Mr Watts." Virgil bit his tongue.

Watts jaw tightened. "I suppose you think that that means that you can slack off?"

"No, Mr Watts. I thought that since I was Bruce's friend and since I'm only doing a not very important job at the mo…"

"Not doing an important job?! Every job at ACE is important! Every job! From the cleaner to Jeff Tracy himself, every person has an important role to play in this company and every person is expected to do it to the best of his or her ability! Not slink away playing nursemaid!"

"But I wasn't gone long. I told the doctor what was wrong with Bruce and then left!" Despite his promise to himself that he would remain calm, Virgil felt his ire rising. He looked at the clock. "It's only…"

"It's only time you came to realise that ACE doesn't revolve around you, Tancy! You are nothing to this company! Your work is below standard…!" Virgil's jaw dropped. "You have time off unnecessarily…"

"I…"

"You disrupt other hardworking employees! You fill the minds of impressionable young men with foolish ideas! You!" Max Watts stabbed at the air in Virgil's direction. "You are trouble! And Jeff Tracy would be ashamed to know that one of his companies… One of his _flagship_ companies employed someone with your attitude and substandard skills. What do you think he'd think if he was standing here looking at a slacker like you right now? What do you think he'd say!?"

Virgil Tracy knew exactly what Jeff Tracy would say. And Virgil Tracy thought it was time that Max Watts found out exactly whose son Virgil 'Tancy' was.

Virgil opened his mouth to speak.

"What's going on, Max?"

Virgil turned when he heard the unexpected voice. Greg Harrison was standing in the doorway and he, despite the quietness of his query, looked angry.

…Which appeared to make Max Watts even angrier. "This is a disciplinary matter, Greg. This is nothing to do with you."

"The way you were yelling at Virgil, you've made it a matter for the whole plant. And I think you need to know that you're making a big mistake."

"Oh, I am: am I?"

"Yes, you are," Greg's voice was still deceptively quiet. "And if you continue treating this young man in the manner you have been since he started here, you are going to be very, very sorry."

"Sorry?!" Max Watts snorted. "It's not me who will be feeling sorry!" He shot daggers at Virgil.

"Oh yes you will be." Greg gave a mirthless grin and Virgil was shocked to realise that there was animosity between these two men. If it was something that had always been present, they'd hidden it well.

"It may have escaped your notice, Greg, but _I_ am Production Manger in this plant. Not you!"

"I am aware of that, Max, and I have never asked for your job. I wouldn't want it and Jeff Tracy knows that."

"Do you think that just because you have known Jeff Tracy since he started this company that you are in a position of power?"

"In this situation, yes. I've known Virgil and his family most of his life. I've also observed his work these past few months that he's been here at ACE and I can't fault him…"

"Then there's a reason why I'm Production Manger and you are simply a Charge Hand."

"Yes. And that reason is that both Jeff Tracy and Hamish Mickelson know that the way to get the best out of their employees is to make use of their strengths. Your strength, Max, is paper pushing like the desk jockey you are."

Virgil was feeling uncomfortable. This exchange was becoming personal and he wondered if it would be possible for him to slip out of the Production Office unobserved. He glanced outside and saw a sea of faces staring in. It seemed that most of ACE's work force had downed tools to watch an argument that appeared to be escalating.

"George's strength," Greg Harrison continued, "is NOT engineering in any shape or form and it's high time you admitted that and stopped taking out your frustrations on Virgil."

"You keep my son out of this!"

"You brought your son into this when you employed him at ACE despite the fact he's not up to ACE's high standards."

Max Watts was on his feet. "You take that back, Greg!"

"Don't you think that there could be a reason why Virgil was employed and George was not?"

"George is a willing worker!"

"Agreed! So long as he's working anywhere but here!"

"He just needs the opportunity to learn the job!"

"Stop thinking like an ambitious father and start thinking like a Production Manager! He's not suited to engineering!"

"He's always wanted to work at ACE!"

"_You've_ always wanted him to work at ACE! George has never had any say in the matter…"

"So now you're telling me how to run my home life as well as my factory…"

"Your factory?" Greg barked a bitter laugh. "Since when has this become 'your factory'…?!"

"_What's going on here?!_"

Virgil jumped. He hadn't seen or heard the General Manager enter the production office and, clearly, neither had Max Watts or Greg Harrison. Glancing outside Virgil realised that the audience of co-workers had melted away.

Hamish Mickelson looked furious. Having been dragged out of his office to diffuse an argument between his most senior employee and his Production Manger was not the way he'd planned on spending his morning. "You two," his finger moved from Watts to Harrison, "go to my office. Now! And you…" he rounded on Virgil, "can wait in the front office. I will want to hear your side of events."

"Yes, Sir," Virgil mumbled, feeling sick. He was also feeling responsible.

He sat in the front office, not speaking with the Personal Assistant, and strained his ears to see if he could get any indication as to what was happening in the G.M.'s office. There was an occasional muffled shout, mainly from Mr Mickelson, but nothing to indicate how things were proceeding.

Time passed and Virgil, his tall frame folded into one of the seats that seemed too short for him, was starting to receive angry messages from his bruised body. To try and alleviate the tension, both mental and physical, he started pacing.

To the obvious annoyance of Olivia, the P.A. "Why don't you sit down, Virgil?"

Virgil decided that this was one situation when it paid to be honest about his health. "It's too painful," he admitted. "Look, I'll wait outside. I'll come running as soon as they want me."

He paced for another hour before the door to the office opened. "Mr Mickelson would like to see you now," the P.A. said and Virgil, his nervous apprehension multiplying, entered the inner sanctum.

The feeling of animosity that filled the inner office was so thick that Virgil had a sudden understanding of the phrase 'cut the air with a knife'. Mr Mickelson indicated that he should sit in a chair within view of the room's three occupants and Virgil quickly complied.

"I am sorry that you got caught up in this, Virgil," Mr Mickelson began, with no introduction or explanation. "And a decision has been reached. I am temporarily splitting production into two sections. One under the leadership of Mr Watts, the other under Mr Harrison. Each section will have its own specific projects and I will dictate which section has control over which project. For example: Mr Watts will control all works required by Frakes Corporation, while Mr Harrison will control all those relating to Anderson Productions…"

Virgil sent out a silent vote of thanks to Uncle Hamish. Greg Harrison was to be maintaining watch over every component relating to International Rescue.

"You will continue working out your time here, Virgil, that goes without saying," Hamish continued, "but you will report directly to Greg Harrison." Virgil nodded, careful not to show any emotion. "I'm not saying that I am happy with this arrangement, but it seems to be the best solution in the interim."

Virgil nodded again.

"This conversation is not to be discussed with anyone other than the four people present in this room." Hamish Mickelson looked directly at Virgil. "Even Mr Tracy will not be informed… I had been led to believe that the staff of ACE worked well together as a seamless unit, and it saddens me to realise that we are unravelling. I am hopeful that in time ACE will once again be the close knit organisation that it always was."

Virgil, feeling more than a little guilty that he appeared to have been the catalyst for this 'unravelling', stared at his hands.

"I think enough has been said at this juncture," Hamish concluded, despite that fact that since Virgil had arrived, he'd been the only person who'd spoken. "Mr Watts. Mr Harrison. I will now ask you to leave. I wish to talk to Virgil alone."

The two older men grunted something that could have been an acknowledgement of what had been said, an affirmation, a farewell, or simply an expulsion of relief that the meeting had been concluded, stood and, without a glance at each other, left the room.

When the door had closed behind them, Virgil turned back to his boss. "I'm sorry."

The G.M. let out a sigh and settled back into his chair. "The only thing you have to be sorry about, Virgil, is that you didn't tell me what was going on sooner."

"I didn't think it was important. Mr Watts only had it in for me and up till now I could handle it. I never realised that they didn't like each other."

"No," Mickelson agreed, "neither did I. I was trying to suggest that Max Watts take some time off to get some perspective, but he refused. The poor man needs a hobby but he's got no interests outside of work." He fixed his gaze on Virgil. "And I mean what I said about not saying anything to your father. This is something that is better kept in house. Jeff doesn't need to know that there's a major personality clash between his senior staff members."

"I understand."

"Good." Then Mr Mickelson relaxed into Uncle Hamish. "I hope this means that you still feel you'll be able to stay at our place tonight. Edna will never forgive me if she thinks I've forced you away before you're completely recovered."

Virgil managed to give him a bright smile. "I'll never forgive myself if I miss out on her cooking."

_To be continued…_


	9. A Quiet Homecoming

**9: A Quiet Homecoming**

Lunchtime Friday. In the intervening two days there had been a lot of discussion amongst ACE's employees as to what had actually happened in the production office and subsequently in Mickelson's. Following that meeting a general meeting had been called and the staff had been split into two groups; one under Max Watts' authority; the other under Greg Harrision's control. Word on the factory floor was that Virgil Tancy knew what had been the reason behind this split, but while there had been many queries, some circumspect, some outright, the young man was unwilling to reveal all. Much, however, had been made of the fact that he'd been paired with Harrison and not Watts…

Virgil left the workshop floor and went to get his lunch from the locker room. He was surprised to discover a friend sitting there. "Bruce!" He frowned. "What are you doing here?"

Bruce held up an apologetic hand. "Relax. I'm not here to work. I got bored at home so I thought I'd come in and do some social club stuff. I've got an idea to put to Mr Tracy. How're the bruises?"

"Most of the red and purple's gone," Virgil responded. "And now I'm just black, blue and yellow. How're you feeling?"

"Much better, thanks." And Virgil had to admit that Bruce was looking better. The colour was back in his cheeks and his old cheeky grin had returned. "And I thought of you, sitting at our table all alone… by yourself…" Virgil mimed playing a violin, "and I thought 'why not keep my old pal Virgil company?"

"You mean you're like the rest of them and want to know exactly what's happened," Virgil growled as they began their walk to the canteen.

"Well… If you want to unburden yourself, who am I to stop you?" Bruce gave an engaging smile. "Treat me as your confessional."

"I have no need to 'unburden' myself," Virgil informed him. "Have you been told who you'll be working under?"

"Yeah. I popped into the office to tell them I was on site and Mr Mickelson gave me the news. I've got Harrison. I'm guessing you have too?"

"You've guessed right."

"I'll bet you're glad about that." Bruce claimed his traditional seat opposite Virgil's.

Virgil placed his coffee and sandwiches (an Edna Mickelson specialty) on the table. He was about to sit down when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and found himself caught up in a crushing (and somewhat painful) embrace, complete with a full-on kiss on the lips. This wouldn't have been too bad except that the owner of those lips was appeared to be in need of a shave. He pushed the overly amorous person away. "Gordon!"

Gordon Tracy favoured him with a coquettish smile and batted his eyelashes. "Hello, Darhling. Did you mith me?"

"Miss you! I'd like to…"

Gordon gazed at him with rapturous delight. "I know what you'd like to do." He gave Virgil a lascivious wink. "I knew you were thimply dying to thee me again," he lisped, "tho I racthed over here ath thoon ath I could." His voice, precisely pitched so the volume didn't appear to be forced, but could be heard by almost every person in the room, had the desired result. Each and every one of Virgil's workmates had turned in their chairs and was listening with great interest. Gordon wrapped his arms around Virgil and gave him another bruising hug.

"Gordon!" As much a defence against pain as an effort to put their relationship into its proper perspective, Virgil pushed his brother away again.

"Oh, you," Gordon gave another coquettish smile. "He just can't keep hith handth off me," he told Bruce who, having already worked out the true relationship between the two men, was grinning like a lunatic. Gordon reached behind him, pulling out a bunch of long-stemmed red roses. "Thethe are for you," he said bashfully.

Virgil looked at the roses and briefly considering dashing the blooms over the prankster's head. At a loss as to what else to do he took them. "Gordon," he sighed. "You haven't changed."

"I should hope not." Gordon grabbed Virgil's chin and turned his brother's head so that he could see the mottled colours running down the side of his face. "Very pretty. Have you been falling asleep face down on your palette again?"

Virgil ignored the query. "This is my friend Bruce. Bruce, this idiot is my brother Gordon."

There was a twin chorus of "So I gathered," and both men laughed.

"I always knew getting you two together would spell trouble for me." Wanting to distance himself from the incriminating roses, Virgil had an idea. "Would you like a coffee, Gordon?"

"Darhling. I should thimply love one." Gordon plonked himself into the nearest chair and turned his attention on Bruce. "So, what's it like working with my big brother?"

Shaking his head in exasperation, Virgil wondered over to the dispensing hatch where Beryl, the tea-lady, was watching him with an expression that could have been interpreted as disappointed. "_That_," he pointed at Gordon, "is my brother."

Beryl's face lit up. "Your brother?"

Virgil nodded. "My younger brother, the prankster. We haven't seen each other in just over a year and he's making up for lost time..."

"So he's not… You're not…"

Virgil brushed aside the questions. "Would you ladies like these?" He held out the roses. "I've got nowhere to put them, they'd be dead by the time I went home, and I'm sure you'd all appreciate them more than I would."

Her face positively beaming in delight, Beryl accepted the roses with a breathless _thank you_. "Does your brother want a coffee, Virgil?"

"Yes, please." As she picked up a cup, Virgil's eyes fell onto some shakers on the counter. "Hang on."

"Yes, Dear?" The tea-lady looked at him in bemusement.

Virgil cast a sly look over his shoulder. Gordon, his back to the counter, was deep in conversation with Bruce. He leant closer to Beryl. "Would you mind putting some cinnamon in first?"

"Cinnamon?" she asked as she complied.

"Gordon hates it," Virgil explained. "Maybe I can get even."

Beryl added the coffee. "But won't he smell it?"

"Hopefully not. He's been a swimmer all his life and he says the chlorine's deadened his sense of smell. With any luck it hasn't improved over the past year… Thanks," he added, accepting the cup.

Beryl winked at him. "I'll have a fresh one ready for him."

Trying (and not really succeeding) to keep a straight face Virgil set the cup in front of Gordon. "There you go, Bro."

Fortunately Gordon did little more than glance at him as he focussed on Bruce. "Thanks… So then what happened?"

"I don't know. Everything's pretty hazy after that. You'll have to ask Virgil."

Gordon had picked up the mug to drink, but, before his lips touched it, he put it back down again. "I did, but all he's said is that things got a little rough." He lifted the mug again, this time looking at Virgil. "What's up with you?" he asked, seeing his brother's smirk.

Virgil gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Just happy to see you again." He winked at Beryl, who'd been joined by the other tea-ladies in anticipation of a laugh. She raised a cup in a salute.

Gordon gave him a strange look and lifted the mug again... And placed it back on the table.

Virgil suppressed a groan.

"How many were there? I can't get anything out of Virg other than 'a few'." Gordon mimed the quotation marks.

Bruce had noticed Virgil's facial contortions and, like Gordon, was wondering what was up. He raised his eyebrow at his friend before opening his mouth to reply…

Gordon had finally taken a mouthful of coffee. His first reaction was to spit the offending liquid out, but managed, with much manful gagging, to swallow it. "What's wrong with this stuff!?"

Virgil took the mug, and sniffed it. "Dunno. Smells all right to me."

Gordon was wiping his tongue on his sleeve. "That's disgusting!" He smacked his lips together a few times, trying to remove the offending liquid. "That tastes like…" He turned on Virgil who couldn't contain his laugher. "You didn't?!"

Bruce, wondering what it was that had caused such a reaction, grabbed Gordon's cup. "Smells okay to me. All I can smell is coffee and… Cinnamon?" He returned the cup to Gordon with a querying look in Virgil's direction.

"Cinnamon!" Gordon exclaimed. "You put cinnamon into my coffee! You know I hate that stuff!"

Virgil feigned surprise. "Really? I'd forgotten. It's been so long since I've seen you."

Gordon scowled at him. "Yeah, right."

"Is everything all right, Dear?" Beryl asked, pretending to clean the table.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of another, is there?" Gordon asked. "One that _he_," he pointed an accusing finger at Virgil, "hasn't got his hands on."

"Now aren't you lucky," Beryl responded. "It so happens I have a fresh mug right here." She handed Gordon another cup and he sniffed it suspiciously. "Have you had enough of this one?" she asked, taking the tainted brew.

Gordon sniffed the new cup again. "Are you sure this one's safe?" He took a cautious sip and made a show of tasting it. "Much better, thanks."

"Yes. Thanks, Beryl," Virgil echoed and, with a conspiratorial wink, she retreated to her counter.

Gordon had a big mouthful of coffee, allowing it to swill around in him mouth before swallowing. "Who put you up to that little trick, Virg?"

"You did."

"I mean; whose idea was it?"

"Mine."

"Yeah, but who actually thought of putting cinnamon into my coffee?"

"Gordon," Virgil said with well practised patience. "I did. I saw it on the counter and thought I'd try to get even."

"You did?" Gordon was obviously astonished.

"Yes."

"Yourself?"

"Yes."

"With no help? No prompting?"

"No."

"You!? Virgil?!"

"Yes, me, Gordon," Virgil sighed in exasperation. "I'm not a humourless as you guys seem to think."

"I never said you were humourless," Gordon stated, enjoying another mouthful of coffee. "You can take 'em, no problem. But I don't think you've played a joke on anyone...! In your entire life! I'm impressed!" He turned back to Bruce and grinned. "You must be a good influence on him."

Bruce smirked in reply. "I do my best."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "So why are you here, Gordon? I thought they weren't due to let the air out of your bubble until next week."

"Hurricane brewing," Gordon explained. "They decided that it would be better to get us out before it hit rather than after. As soon as they gave us the all clear I took off. I just had to see my favourite brother first…" There was a glint in his eye. "Scott and Alan send their best and John's upset because he's going to miss out on the party." He smiled. "Dad's brought it forward to this weekend. Can you still make it?"

Virgil matched the smile with one of his own. "Just try and stop me."

"If you go putting cinnamon into anything else of mine, I just might!"

"You really hate cinnamon that much?" Bruce asked.

"Nasty, disgusting, foul-tasting…" Gordon muttered, and screwed up his face again as the last vestiges of the flavour found its way back to his palate.

"He hates it so much," Virgil explained, "that Grandma always has to make two batches of apple pies. She makes one for Gordon first…"

"So it doesn't get contaminated with that brown dust," Gordon interrupted.

"And then she cooks up another couple of pies… made _properly_," Virgil emphasised and Gordon pulled a face, "for the rest of us. We all reckon that it's just an act, so that _Gordon_," he punched his brother on the arm, "has a whole pie to himself."

Gordon smirked. "Every cloud has a silver lining."

"Pity John won't be home from the space station in time for the weekend," Virgil said. "It would have been fun to have a double homecoming."

"We'll have to have another the following week. Any excuse for a party." Gordon grinned. "So!" he hit Virgil on the back and his brother winced under the impact. "What's it like working in Daddy's sweat-shop…? Uh…" realising his gaff, his grin fell away and he glanced at Bruce. "Oh, heck. I'm sorry, Virgil. I forgot no one here knows…"

"It's okay, Gordon," Virgil soothed. "Bruce knows who I am… Who _we_ are."

Gordon mimed wiping his brow. "Whew!" He jammed a thumb in Bruce's direction. "So he's to be trusted?"

"He's got concussion so he'll probably forget anything we say anyway."

"Hey!" Bruce complained. "I'm getting better! I expect to get the all clear to come back to work on Monday."

"Well, don't rush it," Virgil warned. "After what you were saying on Wednesday…"

Bruce frowned. "What was I saying?" He looked up and smiled as someone walked past. "Hi, Lisa."

She fixed him with a warm smile in return. "It's good to see you again, Bruce. I hope you're feeling better."

"I am." He winked at her. "And better still after seeing you."

Virgil relaxed. The love-sick Bruce had obviously been a symptom of the concussion.

Gordon turned in his seat and saw Lisa. He, rather obviously, raked his eyes up and down her body before emitting a wolf-whistle. Lisa, ignoring his boorish behaviour, turned away so he attempted to get her attention by goosing her.

Virgil turned on his brother. "Gordon!" he hissed.

"What? I'm just showing a beautiful lady that she's appreciated…"

"You don't do it like that…"

"Forget her, Gordon, you've got no chance," Bruce advised. "Lisa's spoken for."

"Oh." Gordon looked disappointed rather than ashamed.

"Yeah," Bruce snickered. "She's shared your brother's bed."

"What?!?" Gordon turned wide, astonished eyes on to Virgil.

"Bruce!" Virgil exclaimed. "I wasn't going to mention that."

"Why not? Why have bragging rights if you don't use them when the time is right?"

"Because he's reading something into it that's not there."

Gordon was still looking at Virgil in astonishment and a degree of respect. "He's kidding, isn't he? You and _her_!!!"

"Bruce is pulling your leg, Gordon," Virgil responded. "He's using his twisted mind to twist the English language."

A big, dinner-plate-sized, hand was slammed down on the table beside the auburn-haired Tracy. Gordon looked at it. "Who ordered steak?" There was a growl and he looked up into a furious face. "Down, Fido."

"Gordon," Virgil groaned. "Apologise would you? This is Butch, Lisa's husband."

"Butch?" Gordon stared at his elder brother as something clicked into place. "That Butch? The one who got you beaten up?"

"Butch didn't get me beaten up."

"That's not the way I understand it." Gordon stood and squared up to an obviously angry Butch Crump. "I want a word with you."

Comparing the two men, Virgil realised that although Gordon was shorter than Butch, he matched him for muscle bulk. His aquatic brother may have lived the past year underwater, but he'd still managed to maintain his swimmer's physique. "Gordon, sit down! Butch is my friend."

"Your friend!?"

"Yeah," Butch growled and stabbed Gordon in the chest with his finger. "And Lisa is my wife."

"So you're the guy who got Virgil beaten up and arrested?"

"And yar the guy who's askin' for trouble…"

"Butch!" Virgil jumped to his feet and sandwiched himself between the two antagonists. "You haven't met my younger brother yet. This is Gordon."

Butch frowned at this bit of information. "Yar younger brother?"

"Yes," Virgil nodded. "I haven't seen him in a year. He's the joker of the family. You know? Always likes a laugh?"

"A laugh?" Butch gave a mirthless smile. "Well, since yar my friend, Virgil, and he's yar brother. I'll let him live…" He glared at Gordon. "This time." He stabbed the air. "Keep away from Lisa."

"Hey," Gordon gave one of his disarming grins. "I was simply admiring your taste in women."

Butch growled again at him and stalked over to the table where his wife was sitting.

Gordon turned back to Virgil. "You're friends with that guy?"

"Yes!" Virgil glared at the younger man. "Can't you show respect to others, Gordon?" and Gordon gave a casual shrug. "Why do you like living dangerously?"

Gordon grinned. "It keeps life interesting."

"One day you're going to do something really stupid get yourself killed!" Virgil exclaimed. "I wouldn't mind except we'll be the ones who'll have to pick up the pieces."

Gordon treated Virgil to a patronising pat on a bruised cheek. "What's life without a few thrills?"

Virgil groaned and sank onto his seat, pulling his brother's sleeve to get him to sit down next to him. "I have to work with these people."

Gordon gave an unconcerned shrug, sat down again, and proceeded to tell Bruce all about the winning of his Olympic gold medal; replaying the story of his triumph, adding embellishments and drama.

Virgil tuned out. Even after a year underwater, he reflected, Gordon hadn't changed and Virgil realised that he'd forgotten his brother's bad points and only remembered the good times they'd had together.

Taking this opportunity to give the younger man a full evaluation, Virgil decided that Gordon looked fit and toned. His expensive shirt was open at the neck revealing a muscular chest and a tan that had to have come out of a bottle. Around his neck hung a medallion of gold, encrusted with diamonds. To Virgil, this medallion represented everything that was wrong with his brother.

The object, while it wasn't a replica of the Olympic medal, shouted "I am the champion". Its diameter was 34mm, half the size of the original; and it had been crafted by a master goldsmith out of 24-carat gold. Cast into one side was the number one and on the other a swimmer (Gordon) had been captured mid-butterfly stroke. Diamonds splashed out from the swimmer's outstretched arms. The gaudy 3mm disc was suspended on a thick gold chain and hung between two well-defined pectoral muscles. The real Olympic gold had pride of place of the Tracy lounge and was a symbol of what Gordon had achieved. This garish facsimile was a symbol of what Gordon had become.

Virgil had long ago realised that it was winning that medal that had changed Gordon. Before he'd won that he'd been cheeky, but it was an inoffensive cheekiness, with no malice, that was guaranteed to elicit a smile from his victim. Then he'd won that medal. At first his family had put up with his cocky behaviour, deciding that anyone who had reached the peak of his chosen sport deserved the opportunity to bask in their hard won glory. But instead of dissipating Gordon's attitude had hardened to outright arrogance. He was top dog and no one could take that away from him. His family had tried various ways of knocking this mind-set out of him, but he'd simply reasoned that they were jealous of his success and ignored them.

Virgil had eventually, reluctantly, come to the conclusion that as much as he loved his brother, there were times when he didn't like him very much.

Part of the problem was that most people had never met an Olympic champion and were quite willing to hang off Gordon's every word, just as Bruce was now. In this latest incarnation of his story, Gordon had mysteriously gained a case of cramp, which he was manfully battling through to the finish line…

"What did you think when you saw him there, Virgil?

"Huh?" Virgil tuned back in. "What?"

Gordon stared at him. "Weren't you listening?"

"Gordon. I was there remember. I've heard you relive the day so many times I don't need to listen. I _know_ what happened. What _really_ happened."

"Do you ever want to swim competitively again?" Bruce asked.

"Me? Nah?" Gordon scoffed. "Been there. Done that. I need new challenges."

"What are you going to do now that you're out of the bathyscaphe? Are you going to work for your father too?"

"Yep." Gordon winked at Virgil. "But before that, there're one or two things that I might apply to do with WASP. Test drive some of their new craft; that sort of thing." He tapped the side of his nose. "All very hush-hush, of course."

The horn, announcing the end of lunch, squawked.

Virgil groaned. "Back to work I suppose."

"I don't have to," Bruce grinned. "I'm still on sick leave."

Gordon watched as a sea of blue overalls seemed to swell around him. "You're all leaving just because a bell rings? I left that behind at school!"

"At least I know that when the bell rings at four-o-clock, I can walk out, go anywhere and do anything I want," Virgil reminded him. "What could you do at the end of your shift?"

That familiar, much missed, impish grin returned. "Change your voicemail messages."

"I still owe you for those." Unwilling to leave his brother so soon after meeting him again, Virgil started walking backwards towards the door. "Can we catch up after work? Maybe fly home together?"

"Sorry, I promised Grandma I'd head home as soon as I'd seen you. She's got some _proper_ apple pie lined up for me." Then Gordon stepped forward. "Com'ere, Virg." The two brothers shared a sincere embrace. "I've missed you."

"Me too. See you tonight."

"Nice meeting you, Bruce."

"Yeah. It's been interesting talking to a real Olympic champion."

"Of course," Gordon preened.

Virgil had nearly made it to the door of the canteen when Bruce stopped him. "Ah, Virgil. Turn around?"

"Huh." Virgil complied and felt Bruce rip something from his back.

"Here," trying to suppress a snigger, Bruce handed him a piece of paper. '_Kick me_' it said. Virgil looked up in time to see his brother blow a kiss at him.

"Gordon!"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was late in the afternoon and Virgil was packing. He'd been to the Mickelsons', presented Aunty Edna with a big bunch of flowers and a promise to tune her car by way of thanks, grabbed his gear and then returned to his apartment. Scott was going to pick him up at 7.00pm to fly to the family homestead for Gordon's homecoming party and he wanted to be ready to leave straight away. Last he'd heard, everyone in the family, apart from John of course, was arriving this evening so the festivities were starting tonight.

There was a knock at the door.

Glancing at his watch, Virgil reasoned that it was too early for Scott to make an appearance. Wondering who the visitor could be he opened the door.

It was Lisa Crump. She greeted him with an uncertain smile. "Can I come in for a moment?"

Virgil pretended that he was going to shut the door on her. "I'm not sure about that Lisa. You know what happened last time you turned up unannounced."

She laughed. "It's all right. I told Butch I was going to try to catch up with you. I've been trying to all week, but you haven't been home."

"No. I've been staying with friends." Virgil stepped back. "Come in… Excuse the mess." He picked up some things off a chair and indicated that she should sit down. "Scott's going to pick me up soon. We're heading home for Gordon's homecoming party… Uh…" He remembered his brother's actions from earlier in the day. "I should apologise for Gordon. He shouldn't have treated you like that."

She gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's only because he was your brother that Butch didn't flatten him."

"So I gathered. The only excuse I can offer up in his defence is that he's been living in a bathyscaphe studying underwater farming methods. You're probably the first attractive woman he's seen in a year."

"You don't have to apologise on his behalf."

"Well… Maybe…" Virgil shrugged. "If it's any conciliation, if Grandma knew he'd treated you, or any woman, like that, he'd have more bruises than I've got."

Lisa looked uncomfortable. "That's why I'm here, Virgil. To apologise. When I asked for your help I honestly didn't think that you'd get hurt. I didn't think anyone would get hurt. I'm feeling really bad about the way things turned out."

Virgil held up his hand. "Don't. Even if you'd only asked me to your party as a guest, I probably still would have tried to help and got beaten up for my troubles."

"Yes, but look at you… And poor Bruce… He wasn't right on Wednesday, was he?"

Virgil remembered Bruce's mid-week comments. "No he wasn't. But he seems to be okay now. He's hoping to be back at work on Monday."

She gave a smile. "That's a relief." The smile slipped from her face. "But that's not all I have to apologise for, isn't it?"

"Well…" Virgil hesitated, wondering how much she'd remembered of her drunken Sunday morning.

"There's…" Lisa seemed unsure how to continue. "I… I should have driven you and Bruce home from the police station."

"That's okay. We could see that you had a few things to say to Butch."

"But you were arrested and charged because of us!"

"Don't worry about it! We've been cleared, thanks in part to your nephew. I'll just chalk it up to one of life's experiences."

"Well…" Lisa bit her lip. "Thank you for getting Butch the lawyer."

"We'll have to thank my father for that one," Virgil reminded her.

"I'd like to do that in person if I ever get the chance," Lisa said. "Will I meet him some day?"

Virgil smiled at the irony of her statement. "I'd practically guarantee it."

"Good. Ah…" Seemingly wanting to say more, but not sure how to begin, Lisa studied a painting on the wall. "Is this one of yours?"

Virgil glanced at the scene of the palm lined beach. "Yes. That's where we're going to live from next year."

"It looks nice."

Virgil chuckled. "If I'm going to be living on an island full time with Gordon, it'll have to be."

Her eyes swung around to the bed and she coloured slightly. "That has got to be one of the most comfortable beds I've ever, ah, slept in."

"I haven't used it for a week," Virgil admitted, trying not to imagine what else had happened there. "I've forgotten what it's like."

Lisa clenched her hands tightly together. "About last Sunday…"

Virgil was silent, letting her unburden herself in her own time.

"I don't normally drink… Not like that anyway."

"I'm sure you don't," Virgil soothed.

"I was upset."

"I know you were."

"I love Butch."

"I know you do, Lisa."

"I know I said I'd leave him, I know I said I'd finished with him, but I didn't want to lose him, so I went a little crazy."

"That's what I figured must have happened."

"I made a fool of myself, didn't I," Lisa whispered; her voice so quiet that Virgil could barely hear her.

"At least you didn't throw up in my car," Virgil chuckled. "Sunday morning I wasn't feeling well enough to clean it up." Lisa gave a little sniff and he took sympathy on her. "Look. We'll just forget about what happened, shall we? After all, nothing did happen. You were upset over losing Butch and I happened to meet you at the car park and, because I knew that's where Butch was, took you home. End of story. I promise that I won't mention the finer details to anyone, least of all Butch. Despite appearances I don't have a death wish." He laughed and after a beat Lisa joined in.

"You're a good friend, Virgil," she said.

He shrugged. "I do my best.

Lisa stood. "I'd better go. I'm holding you up."

"That's okay. You know how we men pack. We just throw a few things into a case." Lisa gave a small smile and turned for the door. Virgil stopped her. "Ah… Lisa…? Can I say something to you…? As a friend…?"

Lisa Crump turned back. "Yes?"

"Look… Um…" Virgil hesitated, aware that he was about to tread sensitive ground. "You're an attractive woman… A very attractive woman…" Lisa blushed as he continued his stumbling speech. "A lot of guys… if they'd been in my place last Sunday… wouldn't have, um, hesitated to… ah…" he looked at his hands, "…you know." He glanced up, making sure he looked Lisa in the eye. "What I'm trying to say is, ah, be careful what you say and who you say it to… Am I making sense?"

Lisa nodded. "I understand…" The blush returned to her cheeks. "Um… Did you want to… 'you know'…?"

"Uh…" Suddenly flustered, Virgil reddened and looked at his watch. "Is that the time? Scott'll be here any minute."

Lisa smiled and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Thank you." She turned back to the door. "Enjoy your weekend. I hope this party goes better than the last one."

"I'm only sorry that I never got to play '_Love Overcomes All'_ for you both," Virgil admitted, "Maybe I'll fly back for your tenth wedding anniversary party and perform it then."

"If we make it that far," Lisa giggled. "Well, now that I've made my peace, I'll leave you in peace."

Virgil opened the door for her. "Thanks for coming, Lisa. I'll see you Monday."

"See you," she responded as she stepped over the threshold. Then she stopped and turned back. "There's one thing you haven't thought of Virgil Tancy."

Surprised, he stared at her. "What?"

"I wouldn't offer to 'you know' with just any man. I'd have to think he was a pretty special guy…" Lisa gave a disarming smile. "See you Monday." She flapped a cheerful wave and, walking as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, hurried away.

Virgil was still staring after her when Scott arrived. "What are you doing, Virg?"

Virgil gave a big sigh. "Just thinking about what might have been in another time and another place. You're early aren't you?"

"I wanted to check out the damage." Scott grabbed Virgil by the chin and twisted his head so he could get a clearer view of the bruises. "Looks like you'll soon have the girls chasing after you again."

Virgil hit his hand away. "Am I going to have everyone doing that?"

"Quite probably."

"It's not as if I'm going to collapse into a heap," Virgil threw the last couple of high-necked shirts into his bag. "It's just a few bruises, cuts and grazes. Nothing serious."

Scott grunted. "It was serious enough to take you out of circulation for a couple of days."

"If you had the excuse to have Aunty Edna fuss over you and cook for you, wouldn't you jump at the chance?"

Scott grinned. "Probably. Are you ready?"

"Yep."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

As everyone had made it to the Tracy home Friday evening, the party was held that night. Gordon, telling everyone who would listen that it was taking him time to acclimatise to being above water, insisted that every partygoer had to wear a silly hat. The hats, fish fins sticking out over their ears, and tails out the back, made it seem that the house had been invaded by a school of long-suffering mullet. The only reasons why everyone complied were because the Tracys were so pleased to have him home again that they were willing to pander to his whims, and because Gordon had the good sense to wear the silliest hat of them all.

Mrs Tracy was the first to abandon her headgear, complaining that it kept on falling off into her cooking. Virgil, annoyed by the headband that kept on rubbing on some of his grazes, escaped outside so that he could relieve himself of the irritation. He sat on the porch, feet up on the rail, nursing his drink and looking out over the comfortable familiarity of the back yard.

He was joined a short time later by Scott. "Had enough have you?"

"Yeah. I got fed up with Gordon's friends shadow-boxing around me and asking me if I'd like to step outside."

Scott laughed. "So you've stepped outside."

Virgil chuckled. "Yes. I thought I'd commune with John." He raised his glass skywards.

"Next week's party's going to be a totally different kettle of fish."

Virgil groaned. "Please. Don't mention fish."

Alan appeared. "Is this where you guys are hiding? Couldn't you take Gordon's friends any more either?"

"No," Scott agreed. "How did he manage to hook up with such a shallow bunch of jerks?"

"They're the 'in crowd'," Virgil said moodily. "Someone as important as him couldn't possibly be seen with ordinary folk."

"Does that mean we don't qualify as 'ordinary folk'?" Alan asked.

"No. We've got money."

"Ah. Automatic admission."

"Yeah, we've paid our way in."

Scott laughed. "You're not in much of a party mood, Virg."

"Well…" Virgil drawled. "I've been looking forward to today. I had hoped that a year away from that crowd would cure Gordon's smugness. But it hasn't worked. He insulted two of my friends at ACE."

"Oh," Scott looked at him over the rim of his glass as he sipped his beer. "I thought maybe you were in pain."

"No. I'm fine." In fact a couple of Virgil's bruises were annoying him; mainly because Gordon, Gordon's friends, and Alan, had insisted on slapping him on the back for much of the early part of the evening.

Scott placed his glass on a chair. "I'm going to give you advance warning, Alan."

Alan looked at his eldest brother warily. "Yes…?"

"When you win this world championship…"

"I like it. _When_ I win," Alan beamed. "I'll drink to that." He raised his glass and had a mouthful of beer.

Scott ignored the interruption. "When you win, if you let your head get as big as Gordon's, I'm going to personally take it down behind that shed," he pointed to the ramshackle building disappearing into the gloom at the end of the yard, "and knock it back down to size."

Virgil laughed. "You'd better get in line, Scott. Father and Grandma will want first crack." He raised an eyebrow towards Alan. "Then I'm next in the queue."

"After John," Scott advised.

"Hey! This has nothing to do with age. I'm here, he's not. I'm staking my claim right now!"

"Guys, guys…" Alan held up a placating hand. "I will do my best to ensure that I escape that terrible fate." He sat up in his chair. "But in case I don't, let's grab Gordon now and we can all get in some practise."

"Don't tempt us," Scott growled.

Jeff Tracy escaped his home and appeared surprised to find most of his sons sitting outside talking. "I left because I thought I was too old for that crowd. What're your excuses?"

"We have a combined IQ of more than 40," Scott said. "We couldn't compete." He removed his glass from the chair so that his father could sit down. "We were just warning Alan that with all the publicity he's getting he's got to keep his feet firmly on the ground…"

"That's rich coming from a flyboy like you," Alan snorted.

"And ironic when you're talking to an astronaut about an astronaut," Virgil added.

"But it's good advice." Jeff sat down and then grimaced. He reached into his back pocket and removed a handful of metal and plastic. "If anyone in there's lost their car keys, you don't know where to find them. I'll pay for the taxis."

"Well lubricated are they?" Scott asked, enjoying more of his own drink.

"Well, they're well on their way. Your grandmother's trying to get some solid food into them but I think she's fighting a losing battle."

A pounding beat could be heard through the walls and a short time later Grandma bustled outside, fanning herself with a paper serviette and shaking her head. "That noise! And they have the audacity to call it music…! Thank you, Honey." She accepted Scott's chair and he propped himself on the balustrade's rail.

"What's wrong with it?" Alan asked. "That song's great!"

"It has all the melodic composition of marbles in your fuel tank," Virgil insisted.

Alan screwed up his nose. "At least it has rhythm."

"So does a metal press, but you don't find me trying to dance to it."

"I should hope not!" Jeff exclaimed. "I'd have to have words with Hamish if you did."

The family laughed and relaxed; enjoying being together again.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The following morning, Virgil allowed himself the luxury of a short lie in. As comfortable as the Mickelsons' spare bed was, it couldn't compare with his own; even one that he hadn't used in months.

When he finally surfaced he was greeted with the sight of his family seated around the dining table, still wearing the fishy headgear. "Please tell me we don't have to wear those ridiculous hats," he complained.

"His lordship has decreed that we have to wear them all weekend," Alan moaned. "This is going too far, Dad."

"We'll wear them for breakfast and then we'll have a ceremonial bonfire to cremate them at lunchtime," his father suggested. "I'm sure Grandma's got some marshmallows tucked away somewhere."

"Well, I'm not going to wear mine on medical grounds," Virgil stated. "And if anyone other than Gordon asks just what those grounds are, it's because I'm sick of wearing it."

Scott, tucking into his second helping of breakfast, stopped and stared at him in concern. "Are you sure that's the only reason?"

"I'm sure. Where is Gordon anyway? Recovering after last night?"

"Yeah," Alan dropped his knife onto his plate. "He's getting in some time in the pool."

As if to prove him wrong, Gordon, fully dressed, entered the dining room. "Mornin' all," he said; obnoxiously cheerful. "Hat, Virgil."

Virgil lifted up a piece of cutlery. "Knife, Gordon."

"We're letting Virgil off wearing his hat this morning," Jeff explained.

For a moment the brash demeanour was swept aside and the old, much loved Gordon resurfaced. He took a seat next to his brother. "Are you okay, Virg?"

Virgil almost felt guilty. "Yeah, I'm fine, Gordon. It gave me a headache, that's all."

"Is that why you left the party so early?"

"I wanted some fresh air," Virgil replied, making sure that he was concentrating on his breakfast. "I was enjoying having a back yard again."

"Oh," apparently satisfied by the answer, Gordon reached across the table for a piece of toast.

"Gordon," Jeff growled.

"What?"

"Ask for it: don't reach for it!"

"Oh. Okay. Gimme a bit of toast, Scott."

Scott didn't move. "Gimme a bit of toast, Scott, _what_?"

"Um… Gimme a bit of toast, Scott, and the butter."

"Gordon!" Grandma scolded.

"What?" Gordon appeared to be genuinely surprised by the lack of assistance.

"Okay. That's it. I'm resigning from the mad hat squad." Scott pulled his fish off his head, and threw it in the direction of the recycling bin. "I don't know why I missed you, Gordon, and I pity the poor suckers you've been incarcerated with this past year."

Alan indicated the yard with his head. "The shed's out there."

"Don't tempt me…"

Things settled down as breakfast progressed and the Tracys began to enjoy Gordon's company again. After they'd finished and were heading out of the dining room, much to Virgil's surprise, he suggested that they watch a movie.

"In the morning?" Virgil asked. "Wouldn't you rather be doing something outside?"

"This is a new martial arts movie," Gordon explained. "It's supposed to be really good. Full of action. I can't wait to see it."

"Yeah," Alan confirmed. "This gang rides into town and the hero's got to fight them all single-handed. It's hot off the presses. It hasn't even been released yet."

Virgil stared at him. "Then how'd you get your hands on it?"

"Dad's got contacts," Gordon confided.

"C'mon, Virg," Scott cajoled. "I'm sure you'll find it interesting."

Virgil frowned. Something about this didn't ring true, but it was a good excuse for the family to do something that they all enjoyed. He followed the rest of them into the lounge where the 150 inch TV hung on the wall, and where he chose a single seat rather than the couch. Prior experience had taught him that his siblings tended to get caught up in the fight sequences and he didn't fancy having his still tender ribs elbowed by an over-excited brother. "What's it called?"

"Um…" For some reason no one had an answer.

"What does it matter what it's called?" Gordon asked, twisting around on his cushion on the floor, beside Alan. "If you know the title you're going to start watching with preconceived ideas about what the show's going to be like. This way you're starting off with a clean slate."

Virgil shook his head. That had to be one of the daftest things he'd ever heard.

"Shut up and push play," Scott ordered. "Let's get this show on the road."

Jeff Tracy entered the room and took the seat beside Virgil.

Gordon had control of the remote. He pressed the start button and an unsteady image panned across the screen. "Great cinematography."

The opening instrumental appeared to have been played by an accomplished pianist on a less than accomplished piano and Virgil sat forward; recognising the opening bars. "Where did you get this!?"

"We told you," Gordon replied, laughing. "Dad had contacts."

Virgil turned to his father who was sitting beside him. "Mr Kirby?"

"He felt that, since I was paying his fee, I should see what really happened." Jeff sounded subdued. "Your brothers haven't seen it yet. I wasn't going to show them, but…" He hesitated. "If you don't want to watch, Virgil, we'd all understand."

"No, it's okay." Virgil slumped back. "I suppose it'll give me the chance to see what happened to everyone else."

"Never mind that," Alan complained. "Who are these people?" He let out a whistle when he saw Lisa. "Now she's something!"

"That's Lisa and that's," the camera moved onto her husband's face as he sang '_Something Good'_, "Butch."

"We've met," Gordon said. "He's all brawn and no brains."

Virgil glared at the back of his brother's head but refrained from comment. Beneath the applause he heard the piano segue into '_Love Overcomes All'_ and then peter out.

"Uh, oh," Alan commented. "The bad guys have arrived."

Virgil found himself briefly in shot as the camera panned around to Muzz and his cronies.

Gordon laughed. "And here comes the cavalry." Virgil was walking from stage right across to the Skulz. "You can hear his spurs. Ka-ching. Ka-ching."

"You look calm enough," Scott noted.

"I didn't feel it."

In the echoing hall, the sound wasn't ideal and Gordon and Alan started overlaying their own commentary as if they were watching a cheap western.

"Howdy, Sheriff."

"This is ma town and I don't want any trouble."

"This town ain't big enough fer the both of us."

They were told to shut up by Scott.

"What did you say to them, Virgil?" his father asked.

"I was trying to politely ask them to go away." Virgil screwed up his forehead as he tried to remember. "The leader's name's Muzz. He walked straight through me as if I wasn't there. And then those three," he pointed at the invited Skulz, "told him to leave."

Now the action was heading out of doors. The pictured jumped about all over the screen as Jacob ran outside. Then it stilled. The young man had placed his camera on something solid.

"Apparently he was planning on standing on a wall and filming," Jeff explained. "He'd put the camera down so he could climb up, but then his mother grabbed him and dragged him inside out of harm's way. Fortunately for Virgil he'd left the camera running."

Indeed, as they listened they could hear a woman's voice; scolding, but with a touch of fear, "Come inside, Jacob… Now!" and a youngster complaining as it receded into the distance.

With no one to shift the viewing angle the Tracys now had a clear view of the gang. "Holy cow!" Gordon exclaimed. "There's a whole school of them." He turned so he could see Virgil. "You said there was 'only a few'."

Virgil treated him to a benign smile. "I might have understated that a bit."

Scott fixed him with a penetrating stare. "What else have you 'understated'?"

"Will you all shut up!" Alan demanded. "I want to hear what's being said. Let's rewind it…" he grabbed at the remote in Gordon's hands.

"Hey! Give that back!"

"Why? You weren't using it."

"I was about to..."

Scott gave a sigh. "We've got the children home again… Gimme that!" He reached down and snatched the remote from Alan. "Now… How far back do we want to go…?" He rewound until Virgil, walking backwards, disappeared out of shot. "That'll do…" He pressed play.

"_Trouble?_" a voice asked.

"That's Bruce," Virgil clarified.

"What's that guy doing to that car!?" Alan asked; horrified at what was happening to the silver automobile that was just in the frame.

"That's my car," Virgil growled. "I haven't got the bill for the repairs yet." Alan shook his head in dismayed disgust.

"_Virgil_…" That was Lisa's voice. "_You won't let them do anything, will you?_"

"_There must be at least 20 of them, Lisa._"

"Mr Cautious speaks," Gordon laughed.

"I thought it was an honest evaluation! I wasn't planning on getting beaten up." Virgil watched as he strode back into view.

"Who's the skinny guy behind you?" Alan asked.

"Bruce."

"Ah… What's he humming?"

"Mama told me not to come."

"He should have listened to Mama."

A mobile phone was demolished. "Bad move, guys," Scott told the screen. "You've just made Virgil mad."

"No. He just made Virgil nervous," Virgil responded.

"Really? You can't tell."

"_Whad is it, Butch?_" Muzz asked. "_Ya gonna listen to the poodle or to me?_"

Gordon snickered. "What did he call you?"

Virgil ignored him as he watched the Skulz advance. He knew what was coming.

Lisa stepped into shot and called to Butch who turned. "What does she see in him?" Scott asked.

"He'll look less rough once he's got his tattoos removed," Virgil informed him.

"Yeah, but I've seen him." Scott gestured towards the TV screen. "He's not exactly pinup material. Whereas she's…" He shook his head in wonder. "What _does_ she see in him?" he repeated.

"Virgil's slept with her," Gordon announced and three pair of astounded eyes turned on the middle brother.

"What!?"

"What Bruce actually said, Gordon; and if you'd been listening rather than bragging you'd know this; is that Lisa's shared my bed." Virgil folding his arms and glared at the red-head; hiding the satisfaction that he felt at the dumbfounded looks he was receiving.

"What!?!" Alan echoed. "But she's married!"

"I'm aware of that."

"Virgil…" Jeff growled. "I think you and I are going to have to have a talk later."

Scott paused the video. "Come on, Virg, spill the beans. What happened?"

"If you want to know you could always ask Grandma." Virgil, somehow, managed to keep a straight face. "She found Lisa coming out of my bathroom… Naked."

His brothers gaped at him. "Naked!?"

"Grandma?" Scott exclaimed. "Saw _her_… Naked…? At your place…?!"

"Yeah."

"Is that how you got the bruises?" Gordon asked.

Enjoying teasing his siblings, Virgil pretended to ignore them and turned to his father. "Where is Grandma anyway?"

"She doesn't want to see this," Jeff explained. "And having seen it myself, I don't blame her."

"Come on, Virgil," Alan whined. "Tell us what happened."

"I thought that was why you were watching the video."

"Not with that! With her! With Lisa!!"

Scott sighed. "Give up, Alan. He's not going to tell us." He gave Virgil a sideways look. "Not now anyway..." He pressed play.

Even through the video camera's lens, the Tracys could sense the change in the atmosphere in the car park. The Skulz looked ready to do battle and Virgil allowed himself a small smile when his brothers cheered after he successfully deflected the first blow.

The cheers turned to boos when he was hit. "Not a good move, Virg," Alan said. "You should have been ready for that."

"Trust me: there's a big difference between a friendly bout in the gym and being attacked by a biker gang."

Gordon had watched Butch keel over. "What happened to him? I didn't see him get hit."

"He wasn't. He faints at the sight of blood," Virgil explained.

"The big wuss."

"Hey! No fair!" Alan exclaimed when Muzz took out Bruce. "He came at him from behind!"

"Let me remind you, Alan. Those guys weren't playing by any set of rules."

Scott pointed at the screen. "Is that a knife?"

Virgil sent the blade flying and the lounge erupted into cheers. "Way to go, Bro!"

The fight started in earnest. Virgil's brothers, watching with the security of the knowledge that they were a week away from the action and that Virgil was in the room with them, enjoyed alternating between applause and cat calls.

The cheers stopped when Virgil doubled over from the blow that knocked him breathless.

"Ouch!" Gordon winced. "That's gotta hurt."

Virgil rubbed his midriff. "It did."

Alan forgetting where he was, yelled, "Behind you, Virgil!" and then, embarrassed, looked about to see if anyone had noticed.

Butch took out Virgil's potential attacker, Virgil struggled back to his feet to help Lisa, and the Tracy boys relaxed enough to enjoy the fight again.

"Nice move, Virg!" Scott congratulated when Virgil ducked out of the path of the head-butting bruiser.

Virgil didn't reply. He knew that what was coming wasn't going to be easy to watch… for any of them. He glanced at his father, who had a tight grip of the armrest of his chair, and wondered if he should stop the video there.

He closed his eyes when the Skulz attacked him with the strike across the throat that laid him out on the ground at the mercy of the gang. He winced as boots and fists pounded him. His ribs ached in sympathy with his virtual self.

Everyone else in the room was numb with the horror of what they were seeing.

Skulz scattered and Virgil, blood pouring from his face and soaking his shirt, staggered to his feet, and turned to face a cop…

The video finished, but the static continued to play on the screen as each of the Tracys contemplated what they'd just witnessed.

Eventually Scott turned the TV off, plunging the lounge into comparative darkness. He was the first to speak, venomously uttering the word that cast doubt on the bikers' parentage. No one commented on his reaction and his father didn't scold him; an indication that everyone empathised with his sentiments.

As one, they all turned to look at Virgil who offered them a wan smile. "I'm still here."

His face white with the shock, Alan spoke. "You must have more bruises than what we can see!"

"A couple more." Virgil pulled down the neck of his sweater, revealing the contusion that ran across his throat.

Scott repeated the word again.

"Scott," Jeff rebuked; but with no real conviction.

Gordon slammed his fist into his palm. "I shoulda taken Butch out while I had the opportunity."

"It wasn't Butch's fault," Virgil protested. "He didn't know they were itching to start trouble."

"You said Lisa knew," Gordon reminded him. "That's why she asked you to be the bouncer."

"She didn't know," Virgil corrected. "I was just there as insurance."

"Nice," Gordon sneered. "You save her life and then she just about gets you killed."

"But why didn't Butch tell them to leave?" Alan asked. "He must have known they were asking for trouble."

"Up till then he regarded the Skulz as his family," Virgil stated. "Would you think that any of us would take out your friends?"

"No…"

"I still think Butch needs to be taught a lesson," Gordon growled. "Are the cops charging him?"

"No."

"Why not? You saw how he went for the gang leader. You had to pull him off."

"I don't know 'why not', Gordon. I just know that…"

"Well I hope he gets what's coming to him..." Gordon turned back to the TV. "Let's watch this again. Are you staying, 'Poodle'?"

Annoyed at being interrupted, and even more angry at the use of the unwanted nickname, Virgil glared at the redhead. "No, thanks. I've experienced it twice and that's more than enough." He stood. "I'll leave you to it. Enjoy yourselves." No one acknowledged him and he stamped out of the room as his brothers sat once again engrossed in the action on screen.

"Are you okay?"

Virgil turned to face his father. "I'm mad at Gordon… But apart from that I'm fine. No psychological after effects."

"Good. Now, tell me, Virgil…" Jeff beckoned his son into his study and indicated that he should take a seat in front of the desk. "What's this about you and Lisa Crump?" he asked as he claimed his own chair.

Virgil laughed. "Nothing happened. Lisa had been away for the weekend with a friend. A girl friend..." he added quickly. "She was sick on the way home and they happened to be near my place. I had to go to my first aid course so I let her sleep in my bed when I was gone. I thought she would have left by the time I got back and got a heck of a shock when I realised that she was in the shower. But I got more of a shock when Grandma and then Butch arrived..." He gave a rueful chuckle. "That was exciting."

Jeff's smile had slowly crept onto his face as Virgil recited the abbreviated version of events. "So you were winding your brothers up?"

"Yep." Virgil laughed again. "Gordon said that he thought that Bruce had been a 'positive' influence on me… I'm not sure it's in the right way."

Jeff chuckled. "Well, that's a relief. I don't know what was more surprising: the thought of you having an affair with a married woman, or the knowledge that you'd been arrested for being in a brawl." He shook his head. "Until I saw that video I never imagined that you'd been attacked as ruthlessly as you were. I'm amazed that you didn't end up in hospital."

"Not as amazed as I was." Virgil gave a wry grin. "I thought I was in major trouble when they had me on the ground. I was lucky the police arrived when they did."

"Yes, you were," his father agreed. "Are you _sure_ you're all right? That was quite a beating you took."

"I'm fine," Virgil reassured him again. "Bruce was in worse shape that I was, but he's coming right now. He should be back at work on Monday."

"That's good." Jeff sat back in his chair. "I know how close they are, but I still can't reconcile Lisa and Butch as a couple. She must have a strange taste in men."

"Must do," Virgil laughed. "She thinks you're handsome."

"She does?!" Jeff simultaneously bemused and flattered, tried to hide his embarrassment. "I… Uh… Well… I… Um… Well, now that we've got that cleared up…" He picked up a newspaper, flicked it open, and pretended to be absorbed by the news. "…I think I might see what's happening in the ol' home town."

Virgil, left to his own devices, decided that it was high time he got some exercise again. The family pool was housed in a conservatory and he reasoned that his brothers would be too absorbed in watching him get beaten up to disturb him.

He took the first few laps slowly, letting his muscles get used to physical activity again. Eventually he was going full speed, oblivious of everything except the buzz that he got from pushing himself to his limits.

"Virgil!"

Virgil gave an inwards groan and finished his lap, ending up with his chest pressed against the side of the pool and resting his chin on his arms. "Yes?"

Scott was looking horrified. "Your back!"

Virgil feigned surprise. "I haven't been anywhere."

"No, I mean your back's covered in bruises."

"Really?" Virgil pretended to be astonished by the revelation. When he had checked himself out in the mirror he had preferred to think that it looked worse than it actually was. "I suppose that might happen if a gang jumps you."

"But, from what I could see on the video, you weren't hit there much." Scott frowned. "And look at your arms..." Virgil pulled his hands under the water out of sight. "How badly injured were you?"

"Bad enough," Virgil admitted.

"Can I see?"

"No."

Scott looked surprised by the answer. "No?"

"No. I know what you're like… What you're all like. And you'll all either wrap me in cotton wool or get some perverse delight out of seeing me flinch… Like Gordon and Alan were doing yesterday until Father told them to stop… Look, Scott," Virgil pressed himself closer to the wall of the pool, "wasn't it bad enough watching me get thrashed by that gang? Why do you want to see me all black and blue and every other colour you can think of? It looks worse than it is because I'm healing; and I'm healing well. You don't need to worry about me."

Scott slipped off his shoes and sat on the side of the pool so his feet could dangle in the water. "You're right: it's no fun watching you get beaten up. I'd had enough by the fourth rerun. The kids are still watching, but they've worked out that if they switch the video off when Butch helps Lisa to her feet, then they miss out on seeing you getting smashed." He managed a dry chuckle before he looked at his brother. "I'll tell you one thing I was thinking as I was watching you fight. I bet you could take on Lady Penelope and win."

Virgil laughed. "I doubt it. Believing that you're fighting for your life gives you that extra edge."

"That makes sense..." A sly smile blossomed on Scott's face. "Gordon hasn't met her yet, has he? Shall we arrange a match?"

"After what he said about Butch, I'd be willing to get on the phone to London now."

Scott barked out a laugh before he lapsed into thought; kicking at the water. "You haven't asked me if I felt anything while the fight was going on."

"No." Virgil ducked his head under the water. "I wasn't planning to."

"Why not? Aren't you curious?"

"No!" Virgil snapped. "All I am is turning into a prune. Are you going to leave?"

Scott looked surprised at the vehement reaction. "What's wrong? You've got a real issue about this supposed telepathic link we've got, haven't you? How come?"

"You didn't have to put up with everyone looking at you as if they were wondering what size padded cell to order!"

"Oh." Scott bit his lip in thought. "Right..." Changing the subject, he lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Now… tell me about you and the luscious Lisa..."

"I had a feeling that's why you were here." Virgil mimed locking his lips together. "I'm not saying anything. That was between me and her."

Scott gave a genial smile. "I figured you'd say that... Okay," he got to his feet. "I'll leave you in peace…"

"Is this where you guys are?"

Scott sent Virgil a sympathetic look. "I was just leaving, Alan."

Gordon smirked. "Leaving the poodle to practise his doggie paddle?"

Scott's face hardened. "Did you guys want something?"

"Yeah," Alan beamed. "Dad's been reading the paper. The 'Eagles' are playing today at Patton Park."

"Yes?" Virgil brightened. They'd all been rabid supporters of the Eagles when they were kids and each had harboured a secret (or not so secret) desire to play for their team one day.

"It gets better," Gordon said, his face alight with enthusiasm. "They're playing the 'Rocks'. Or, more correctly, going to do to them what the Skulz did to Virgil."

"The 'Rotten Rocks'?" Scott asked, using the Tracys' boyhood nickname for the neighbouring town's team. "Oh, boy! We've gotta see that."

"Dad's on the phone now getting tickets," Gordon said. He looked at his watch. "The game's due to start in an hour." He looked pointedly at Virgil.

"Let's go tell Father that we're all going…" Scott tried to usher his youngest brothers out of the conservatory.

But Gordon wasn't having it. "Are you going to stay in there all day, Virgil?"

"I wasn't planning to."

Gordon gave an evil grin. "Do you want a hand getting out, Poodle?"

Virgil felt his jaw muscles tighten. "No, thank you."

"Come on, Gordon," Scott ordered. "Leave him alone."

He was ignored. "Perhaps you'd like your coat rubbed dry?"

"Gordon!" Scott snapped.

Virgil counted to ten… Slowly…

"And then we could throw you a stick to fetch."

"Leave me alone, Gordon," Virgil snarled.

"Whoa!" Gordon took a step backwards. "Down boy. I think someone needs their belly rubbed." He turned to his dry siblings. "Want to give me a hand, fellas?"

Alan looked at Scott. "The shed?"

Scott nodded. "The shed."

They grabbed Gordon by the arms and proceeded to drag him, protesting, backwards out of the room.

…Until they bumped into their father. "Where are you boys off to?"

Scott gave a false smile. "We're just going to show Gordon how pleased we are he's home again."

But Jeff didn't seem to be listening. "I've just had a call from the space agency. They've delayed John's return flight."

Scott and Alan released their hold on Gordon. "Delayed it?" Scott frowned. "Why?"

"The same hurricane that finished Gordon's time underwater is due to hit the spaceport any day," Jeff explained. "The earliest John'll be back on terra firma is July 5th."

"Great," Virgil moaned. "I've got to be at work. That's unless the boss gives me some time off?" He looked hopefully at his father.

"No, I want you on site," Jeff said. "Hamish has planned for Thunderbird Five's panels 1347 to 2387 to go through the plant over the next two weeks. I want you there to keep an eye on everything. I'm sure John will understand."

Virgil hoped he was right.

"And you've got me programmed to visit the plant in England that's producing some of the electronics," Scott added. "Do I still have to go?"

"I'd rather you did. It's crucial that they are all manufactured to specifications."

"Well, it might be a public holiday, but I'm working all week," Gordon said. "But I'm due a day off so I'll make sure I catch up with him," and sounded sincere when he added, "I can't wait to see him again."

"We'll be shifting circuits," Alan remembered. "I'll be spending that week setting up and getting in some practise laps…" Then he brightened. "Hold on! We're moving to Risen Park. It's only an hour's drive from here, less in a plane. The race is on the following Saturday. Why don't we meet at the track? Once you've watched me wipe everyone else out of the park we could all fly back here for a double celebration!"

"So speaks Mr Modesty," Gordon said, and seemed unaware of the irony in his statement.

"Sounds like a good idea," Scott stated. "Everyone agree?"

"I'll email John and let him know." Jeff looked at his watch. "If we're going to catch this game we'd better get moving."

But Gordon didn't budge. He stood there, arms folded. "We can't go until Virgil gets out of the water."

Virgil was sick of his brother's taunts. He was also cold and eager to get to the game. "Fine!" He hauled himself out of the water and, ignoring his family's horrified stares, stalked over to the chair that held his robe. "I'm going to get changed. 'Scuse me." He pushed his way out between his siblings.

He was ready in double quick time and met the rest of the family in the lounge. No one commented on what they'd seen; a fact for which he was profoundly grateful.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Tracy answered it.

"Hey, Mrs T. Is Gords in?"

Gordon's face lit up as his family's collective heart sank. "Marrin!"

"Hey, Gords." Marrin pushed past Mrs Tracy, who was frowning her disapproval. "Watcha doin' here? We're off to the lake."

"The lake? Great."

"Marrin," Jeff Tracy said, staring the young man down. "It is customary when you enter another person's house to greet them… or at least acknowledge their existence."

"Hey, sorry, Mr T. No hard feelin's, right? But Gords has been gone for a long time. We've got a lot of catchin' up to do."

"And we haven't?" Scott asked.

"Hey, don't be so starchy, Scotty. Lighten up. You've been pullin' too many G's?" Scott's face took on a similar expression to that of his father and grandmother's.

"There's room for two behind the shed," Alan whispered to Virgil.

"Just make sure that I get Gordon."

"We were about to go and watch the Eagles play the Rocks," Jeff was explaining. "If you'll excuse us, Marrin…"

"Man, that's lame. I'm tellin' ya, Mr T., you're wasting time and money goin' to watch that buncha no-hopers. You should watcha real sport like 'space hoppin'. Then you'll see real men do their stuff."

"We've followed the Eagles for as long as we've lived in this town," Jeff explained. "It's a family tradition."

"I never picked you to be a bunch of suckers, Mr T."

Jeff's lips were a thin angry line. "Have you got a job yet, Marrin?"

"You mean that nine-to-five drag? Nah."

"Then it might be wise to show a little respect to one of the main employers in the area."

"Me? Work for you?" Marrin laughed. "No 'ffence meant, Mr T. But your factories are for losers."

"And how do you propose to earn a living?"

Marrin mimed playing a riff on a guitar. "I'm a musician; right, Gords? My band's called 'Off the Rails'."

"At least he's got something right," Alan whispered.

"If he's a musician then I'm an aquanaut," Virgil responded.

Alan laughed in reply and received a strange look from Marrin. "You okay, Allie."

Alan scowled at him. "I'm fine, Moron."

"It's Marrin."

"Sorry." Alan nudged Virgil who, trying not to laugh, felt his ribs start to ache. He rubbed them.

"Hey, Virgie? What's the matter? The ol' war wounds actin' up?" Marrin started shadow-boxing around Virgil. "C'mon. Let's see your stuff."

"You don't want to take him on," Alan warned. "We've seen the video of that fight he was in the other night. There must have been at least 100 of them. All big, tough gang members armed with knives and knuckle-dusters. And Virgil took them on single handed."

Marrin laughed. "C'mon, Allie. You're jokin'."

"No, I'm not," Alan kept a straight face. "Am I, fellas?"

Virgil tried to look modest as Scott, and even Gordon, agreed with Alan's lie.

"Oh." Marrin took a step backwards. "Hey, no hard feelin's, Virgie?"

Virgil folded his arms and frowned disapprovingly on the interloper. "The name's Virgil," he drawled. "And don't you forget it."

"Virgil. Right. Got it. Are you comin', Gords?"

"Yep." Gordon grabbed his jacket and, without another word disappeared out the door. His family looked at each other.

Jeff sighed. "Welcome home, Gordon," he said.

_To be continued…_


	10. A Quiet Departure

**10: A Quiet Departure**

"Do you think he'll tell us?"

"Do I think who'll tell us what?"

Gordon gave a sigh of exasperation and looked at Virgil. "Where have you been? Do you think John'll tell us about Tracey?"

Virgil leant on the rail that circled the race circuit. "He'll have to, surely. She must have had the baby by now. Didn't he say anything when you saw him the other day?"

Gordon shook his head and gave a guilty grin. "And to be honest, I was that pleased to see him and had so much to tell him; I forgot to ask him."

Scott strode over to his brothers. "Hey, Guys."

"Any sign of him?" Virgil asked.

"No. Grandma's demanding that Father calls the space agency to make sure that he wasn't held up."

"Maybe he stopped off to see Tracey and the baby?" Virgil suggested.

"Do you know what I think?" Gordon asked. "I think that you've made this 'John got this woman pregnant' thing up. Come on," he nudged Virgil's newly healed ribs, "you can tell me. You're joking, right?"

Scott smirked. "Look who you're asking, Gordon."

Gordon laughed. "Oh, yeah. Mr 'I wouldn't know a joke if it jumped up and bit me'. Enough said."

Virgil ignored the assassination of his character. "Do you think Scott's joking?" he asked Gordon. "He saw her too. So did Alan, and Father, and Grandma."

"And under that weight of evidence, I suppose it is possible that you're not joking." Gordon admitted. "But, somehow, it just doesn't seem plausible. Not John! He's… He's…" He frowned as he tried to find the right word. "He's so quiet!"

"They're the ones you've got to watch," Scott said.

Gordon gave a cockeyed grin. "Does that mean you trust me?"

"Nope…"

Alan, clad in his racing overalls, jogged up the steps and over to his siblings. "Is he here yet?"

Scott shook his head. "No."

"Do you think he'll tell us about Tracey and the baby?"

Virgil shrugged. "We don't know."

"Do you think he'll tell us if he's made up his mind about joining the business?"

Alan's brothers looked at one another. This was something that they'd all wondered, but hadn't cared to mention.

Gordon gave another tiresome nudge in Virgil's ribcage. "You know why he's taking the time to think about it. Tell us!"

"I've told you before that I'm not going to tell you," Virgil reminded him.

"Why all these secrets all of a sudden?" Alan asked. "You still haven't told us about Grandma finding Lisa naked in your bed."

"That's because she didn't find her naked in my bed. She found her naked coming out of my shower."

"Come on, Virgil," Alan whined. "We promise that we won't tell anyone else. It'll help kill some time."

Virgil grinned, enjoying a feeling of superiority over his brothers. "Nope."

"Well, at least we know he'll never give us away," Gordon snorted. "He clams up tighter than a bivalve mollusc."

Alan looked at his watch. "How much longer is John going to be?"

"We don't know…" Gordon gestured behind them. "But I think we're close to finding out."

Jeff Tracy was striding towards his sons with a purposeful gait. "He's about a mile away," he announced. "He got held up in the traffic coming here to the racetrack. The authorities have given us permission to use one of the offices so we can have a bit of privacy. Come on." He led the way.

"I hope he's not too late in arriving," Alan said as they entered the building. "I've only got a ten minute break. Do you think he's changed at all?"

"He might glow green when you turn the lights off," Gordon suggested. "Or have an antenna growing out of the centre of his forehead."

Everyone ignored him.

"John's only been gone a month," Scott reminded his kid brother. "Look at Gordon. We haven't seen him in a year and he's still the same pain in the butt that he always was."

"Where's Grandma?" Virgil asked.

Jeff gave a wry grin. "She's elected herself in charge of traffic movements. She's going to direct him into here."

He'd no sooner spoken when they heard a familiar voice in the outer office. "John!"

"Hi, Grandma. You're looking wonderful."

"Mmmn." That sounded like a hug and a kiss. "I've missed you."

"And I've missed you. Have you made any apple pie for me?"

"Oh, you boys! You only think about your stomachs."

"Believe me; I've thought a lot about your cooking while I've been away… Where is the rest of the clan?"

"In here…" and Grandma stepped through the door closely followed by her grandson.

John looked fit and well. Living in a space station had obviously suited him.

Virgil, oblivious to the fact that his father had held his brothers back, or of the bewildered looks they shared, stepped forward to greet his elder brother. "It's good to see you, Johnny."

"Virg!" The two men shared a warm hug. "Boy, I'm glad to see you."

"Sorry I couldn't get to see you this week, but I had to sit my first aid exam. I'd already deferred it once and I couldn't ask them to do it again."

John smiled and Virgil, unaware that he'd been so tense, relaxed. "That's okay. I'm just happy to see you in one piece! How do you think you did?"

"I passed, of course."

"Of course." John looked across to his father. "Hi, Dad."

"Welcome back down to Earth, John," Jeff stepped forward and his sons took it as an indication that they were free to do the same. "I think you'd better say a quick hello to Alan first. He's got to get ready for the race."

"And I'm looking forward to seeing it, Kiddo," John grinned. "How do you think you're going to go?"

Alan was beaming. "It's going to be tricky on this track, but the car's running sweeter than it ever has and, now that I've seen you, I'm feeling great!"

John smiled at him. "Then get out there and show those old timers that you can foot it with the best of them."

"Right. See you after the race, John. Then we'll have a double celebration!"

"You can count on it, Alan."

Alan raced out the door and John turned back to the rest of the family. "Now… How hard is it going to be for me to guess who it was who thought that the first thing I'd want to do after being out in the clean silence of space, is spend an afternoon at a noisy, smelly racetrack?"

"Not hard at all," Scott said.

"Alan. I thought as much. How are you, Scotty…?"

When they'd finished their hellos they made their way to the shared corporate box that was to be their home for the afternoon.

Not that they made much use of the facilities. None of the Tracy boys listed watching motor sport as a hobby to be enjoyed. Virgil would have rather been in the pits tinkering with the engines than watching grown adults go round and round in circles. Gordon liked watching competitive sports on the television, but preferred those of an aquatic variety where he could shout insults at the competitors and criticise their technique. John had always enjoyed quieter, more intellectual pastimes, and Scott simply couldn't understand why anyone would feel the need to attach something to a vehicle to prevent it from flying off into the air.

But, as united as the brothers were in their apathy towards car racing, they all equally loved watching their youngest brother compete on the track.

The Tracys spent most of the time leading up to the headline race at the back of the box getting reacquainted, listening to Gordon's exploits, and, when he could get a word in, finding out about John's time in the space station. All to the background drone of cars speeding around the circuit and the intrusive squawking of the track announcer.

At last the tannoy announced the main event and the family crowded by the window, jostling for the best position.

Gordon pressed himself to the glass. "We've got a great view of the home straight. Look. There's Alan's car." The family watched as the red vehicle was precisely positioned in place on the third row of the grid.

"So he didn't manage pole position," John commented. "He won't be happy about that."

"He was too excited about having the family together again," Jeff said. "He'll have settled down now."

"And here comes the revelation of the year: rookie driver Alan Tracy," the tannoy burbled; and Alan, his helmet already on his head to frustrate photographers, walked out to his car, deep in conversation with his manager and coach. He slid into the cockpit, and the steering wheel was fixed into position.

"He's in serious mode," Scott approved. "If he can carry that attitude over to the family business he's going to be an asset to the team." He glanced towards his second youngest brother. "We're all going to have to learn to leave our egos at home and focus on what we're doing if we're going to succeed."

Already bored by the lack of action, the comment seemed to go straight over Gordon's head. "So… John? Anything 'interesting' happen while you were away that you think you should tell us about?" he asked in another unsubtle attempt to fish for information.

But John didn't take the bait. "Lots about stars, and nebulae, and quasars. But nothing that would interest a bozo like you. I'll tell you one thing though," he added, brightening. "I've thought of this brilliant idea for a communications device. One we can wear everywhere and no one will even know we've got it. One we won't need to tap into a public network to use."

"We could have done with that last year when Scott crashed his plane," Virgil remembered. "You said so at the time."

"That's what got me thinking about it; but it took being on a satellite to bring it to fruition. I'll start making us one each as soon I've got a spare moment. I've already asked Brains to order the parts."

"And the competitors are all ready for the start of the fifth race in the series," the tannoy announced. "The question in everyone's mind is can young Alan Tracy overtake Victor Gomez in the championship standings?"

"Of course he can," Gordon told the invisible speaker. "And if you'd hurry up and get this show on the road he'd show you!"

"Calm down, Gordon," Jeff admonished, mindful that they weren't the only group in the box awaiting the race.

The roar of the expectant crowd and the straining cars penetrating even their relatively sound-proof box, they had to wait a further two minutes before the green light was given.

"And they're off!" the tannoy announced, even though the cacophony of sound and flashing lightbulbs had heralded the start of the race. "Alan Tracy's already up to fourth position as Franseco Cameron gets caught up in a duel with Ajax Tunnicliffe."

The Tracys cheered.

The cars rounded the first corner, Alan hot on the tail of the third-placed car. It was another three laps before he overtook him, slotting easily into a podium-finish winning position. Now he only had two vehicles between him and victory. He took a corner too fast and fish-tailed out of it, losing precious fractions of a second.

"Take it easy, Kiddo," John advised. "You don't want to blow it."

The announcer was giving an in-depth account of the race and every time Alan's name was mentioned, the Tracys shouted their encouragement to the youngest member of their family.

"Young Alan Tracy might be only in his first year driving at this level, but he's driving like a seasoned pro…

"Tracy nearly had Quigly then. It was only the intervention of number 63 that held him back…

"And there's Alan Tracy, thundering down the home straight like a rocket launching for the stars."

"He's getting in some early practice," Gordon quipped and was shushed by his family.

It was a nail-biting race. Every time Alan seemed ready to pounce on the second-placed car a corner or a slower vehicle would hold him back. Finally, on the penultimate lap, he seized his chance and when number two took a corner wide, Alan slipped beneath him and emerged from the bend in second place.

"Go Alan!"

Now Alan's target was Victor Gomez. Slowly the young Tracy reeled in the more experienced driver.

They flashed past the finish line for the second-to-last time.

Alan was on Gomez's bumper, so close that from this distance the Tracys weren't sure that they weren't touching. Nose-to-tail the two cars chased each other around the track. Gomez doing all he could to keep the young man from overtaking.

"What's he doing!?" Scott exclaimed. "He'll kill himself!"

"Slipstreaming," Virgil replied. "He's using the region of reduced pressure behind Gomez's car to be pulled along at the same speed."

"I know what slipstreaming is," Scott retorted. "But that's not slipstreaming. That's suicide!"

Still maintaining his position glued to Gomez's tail, Alan was sliding closer to the wall. Now all that stood between the two competitors and the finish line was the final corner and the home straight.

Gomez rounded the corner and Alan, seeing the tiniest gap between his nemesis and the barrier at their side, nudged the rear of the leading car. Gomez, his momentum already moving at an angle to the final straight, spun out, lost control, and ended up inches from crashing into the opposing wall. Facing the wrong way, he could do nothing but watch as the cars that had been following him the entire race passed him with ease.

Alan, his quick reflexes avoiding the potential accident caused by Gomez's misadventure, slipped through the cloud of dust and into first place. Now, with no obstacle to his victory, he roared down the final few metres to the finish. Jubilant he punched the air.

Up in the corporate box his family were more subdued.

"Gomez made a mistake, didn't he?" Grandma asked. "I didn't just see Alan deliberately ram him off the track?"

"Was that legal?" John asked.

Jeff nodded. "Unfortunately it is in this class." He glared though the window to his youngest son. "Legal doesn't make it right though."

Virgil glanced at his father whose angry face was set like stone; then he looked back down to the pits. Triumphant with his win, Alan had clambered out of the cockpit and was standing on the bonnet celebrating with his pit crew.

But not everyone in the pits was celebrating. Victor Gomez stormed over to the Team Tracy enclosure and pulled Alan off the car. Alan managed to maintain his footing, pushed the older man back, and made a gesture that obviously challenged Gomez to a duel. Gomez, fist raised, rushed back at the younger man.

"Oh, boy: a fight!" Gordon enthused. "Wait for Virgil, Alan. He needs the practise."

"Shut up, Gordon," Virgil responded and watched as Gomez's and Alan's support crews hauled the two men apart.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Most of the anger and concern had dissipated from the Tracys when the seven of them gathered around the family dining table for a celebratory meal that evening. Alan, still on a high after his win, was talking excitedly, shooting questions at Gordon and John and barely giving them time to respond.

"Wasn't it disconcerting having all that water above you, Gordon? Knowing that it would only take one little crack in the bathyscaphe and you'd be history?"

Gordon laughed. "Don't be stupid, Alan. There was no way that bathyscaphe would 'crack'. It was designed to be indestructible."

"So was the Titanic," John reminded him.

"Yeah. But the Titanic didn't have me at the helm."

"Has Tracey had her baby yet?" Alan asked, changing course as quickly now, as he had on the racetrack earlier that day.

"Yes, she has: a little girl." John gave a delighted smile. "Tracey told me that you'd offered to help, Dad. Thanks for that. I really appreciate it."

Jeff's eyes had narrowed. "It seemed the least I could do under the circumstances."

"Does she have a name?" Grandma asked.

"Toni Jocey Cullen," John stated. "That way she's got a combination of her parents' names, without all the confusion." He grinned. "Tracey got her wish too. She was late going into labour. They were talking about inducing her but she managed to wait a week until 'Little Johnny' arrived."

"So now what?" Gordon asked.

John frowned. "Now what, what?"

"Now that little Johnny's home and her mother's got everything she wanted. What's her father going to do?"

"Oh!" The frown cleared. "He's applied for a position with the ground crew for the next few space missions. He's had his time in space and now it's time to settle down on Earth and be a family man. He's not planning on going anywhere far from home any time soon."

"Oh…" an air of despondency seemed to settle over the Tracy family.

John noticed the collective disappointment. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, John," his father replied. "We just want you to be happy."

"Well… Thanks." John frowned again, confused by the sentiment.

Grandma placed her hand on his arm. "When will we get to meet Toni?" she enquired.

"I suppose we can arrange that for any time you're in town," John said. "I popped in to see them the first day I had free, but apart from that I'm leaving them alone for a couple of weeks to get used to being a family. Tracey says that after not having Toni's father about for so long, it's taking her time to get used to having a man about the house again." He shrugged. "So I'm giving them some space."

"Do you think that's wise?" Jeff rumbled.

"They were quite grateful when I explained why I'm doing it," John responded. "But I did say that if they needed anything they only need to call me. Besides, they knew that my first priority was to see _my_ family again." He spread his arms wide. "So here I am."

"What does Tracey's family think of this?" Scott asked.

"They're glad." Bemused, John's family looked at each other. "Tracey's got enough stress in her life at the moment, what with her father, the new baby and everything, and they've been worried about her."

"I'll bet they have," Alan said.

"Little Johnny was seriously considering applying for the next mission, but now he's decided to stay home and be a family man…" John looked around the sea of confused faces. "What?"

"John…" Scott cleared his throat and sat forward. "I know everyone here is dying to ask this question and that you're going to think that we're all mad, but… What is your relationship with Tracey?"

"Huh?" John looked at him incredulously. "She's a friend, of course."

"A friend...? You mean…" Virgil, like everyone else, was still trying to get his head around what he was being told. "She's not your…? You're not her…?"

"Not what?" John stared at him. Then realisation dawned. "You mean you all thought that I…" He threw his head back and laughed. "I don't believe it…" he chortled. "You thought I was Toni's father? Priceless!"

"You might think it's 'priceless', John," Jeff growled, "but I think you'd better go back and start from the beginning."

John leant forward. "Tracey is married to Little Johnny." He received blank stares. "You know... Little Johnny! Come on! You must have heard of him. John Cullen! Seven foot one inches in his stocking feet and so many muscles that they had to put an extra booster rocket on just to get it off the ground… Little Johnny!"

"But… But…" Alan stammered. "But she wasn't wearing a wedding ring."

John was still laughing. "Her hands had swollen up with the pregnancy. She was wearing her rings on a chain around her neck… I must have told you about her!"

"You certainly didn't tell me, John," his grandmother informed him.

"I didn't? Well…" John mused. "That's one of the problems of being part of a large family. You think you must have told someone, assume that you've probably told everyone, but don't actually tell anyone…" He leant on the table and began his explanation. "Tracey Cullen is married to John Cullen and they've just had a daughter, Toni Jocey Cullen. Do you remember now?" He gaped at the shaking heads. "You must have heard me talk about them! Little Johnny has been on a three-month tour-of-duty on the space station. He came back on the return flight of the one I went up on… Just in time too. Tracey had Toni the day after he got back... Understand...? Tracey is just a friend!"

Grandma humphed. "It didn't sound like she was 'just a friend' when you were saying goodbye."

"That was the hormones," John explained. "Don't you think that if I was going to be a father I would have told you?"

"You might have thought you told one of us, assumed you told all of us, but in reality told none of us."

"Me?" John raised his hands in surrender. "You know how shy I was when I joined the space agency. Grandma, you used to say I was as quiet as a church mouse…"

"True," Gordon agreed.

"But, as someone else recently said," John glanced at Virgil, "I've come out of my shell these last few years. That's partly because Tracey and Little Johnny kind of took me under their wing. Little Johnny showed me the ropes at work and Tracey made sure that I… what was her phrase…? 'Had the woman's touch.' She made sure I was eating properly, always had clean clothes, that kind of thing. I think they must have thought I was a hopeless male, despite the fact that I kept on telling her that I'd been well trained by my Grandma... Anyway, they became a kind of surrogate family to me. And when Little Johnny was on the space station I repaid the favour keeping an eye on her for him. Her father's got cancer and her mother can't leave him for any length of time, so I made it my job to make sure Tracey was okay, was looking after herself and the baby, and was getting to her obstetric appointments on time." He smiled. "It was the least I could do after all the help they'd been to me. Tracey even asked me to go with her to her antenatal classes and to support her during the birth if Little Johnny didn't make it home in time."

Alan stared at him. "She did what!?"

John chuckled. "I wasn't that keen on the idea at first, but then I thought, why not…?" he picked up his cup and toyed with it, watching what remained of his coffee roll around. "I went to the courses, hoping like mad that I'd never have to use what I learnt, but figured the knowledge might come in handy if I ever find myself on a rescue and have to help deliver a baby. Of course I missed out on the practical experience because I was on the space station at the time." He shrugged. "Oh well. C'est la vie."

Stunned silence had met his pronouncement and his father was the first to find his voice. "What did you say, John?"

John's reply was as emotionless as if he was discussing the weather. "C'est la vie. It's French. It means 'that's life'."

"We're aware of that," Scott remonstrated. "Did you say _on a rescue_? Does that mean you've decided you're going to join International Rescue?"

John gave a casual shrug. "I may have done." He grinned… And was pounced on by his brothers and found himself caught up in a headlock. "Hey! Get off!"

"Let him go, boys," Jeff instructed, but it was more of a fond request than a demand. "Why the change of heart, Son?"

"Lots of little things." John shrugged. "But I knew I'd made the right decision when I was on the space station. After spending all my life looking up towards the stars, this was the first opportunity I'd had to look back down onto the Earth. I suddenly found myself wishing that I had some way of protecting her from all her troubles. And then I realised that there was a way… a small way in the grander scale of things, but I knew that I could do something… And then I realised that I needed to be part of your dream, Dad. It became my dream too."

Jeff, taken aback by the speech, smiled. "Thank you, John."

"And if you idiots," John indicated his brothers, "hadn't simply assumed that I'd go along with whatever you said, and had actually _asked_ me my opinion during that phone conference, I would have told you that I intended to be a member of International Rescue. But you all… all except Virgil," he favoured his younger brother with a warm smile, "blithely carried on as if I didn't have a mind of my own. So I thought: _Right! If that's the way you want it, you can stew until Thanksgiving...!_"

"Stew! I think we stirred ourselves into a full casserole," Gordon exclaimed.

"You've given us a good lesson," Scott admitted. "And it's one we shouldn't have needed to be taught… Sorry, John."

"I'm sorry too," John added. "I'm sorry that I left you wondering too, Dad."

"If… what's his name…? John Cullen's 'Little Johnny'," Alan began, looking askance at his svelte brother, "does that make you 'Big' Johnny?"

John chuckled. "No. There're four Johns in the astronaut programme and we've got nicknames to differentiate between us all. John Cullen's 'Little Johnny', Jon Egan's 'Egg', and John Galloway's 'Steer."

"And John Tracy?" Gordon asked.

"Arnie." John reddened and looked down. "Arnold Junior." He said quietly.

_Arnold_. Jeff Tracy's nickname when he was in the astronaut corps. Virgil suddenly had a clearer understanding of John's frustrations at being 'forced' to toe the family line. For the first time in months he was glad of his own deception at work. John, even when he'd made the break on his own into the world and followed his own career choice, was constantly reminded that he was still regarded as Jefferson Tracy's son.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The following afternoon Virgil was in his childhood bedroom, listening to his stereo as he threw his things into his bag in preparation for his flight back 'home'. He was interrupted by John. "I thought I'd better warn you."

Virgil stared at his brother. "Warn me? Warn me what?"

"We're back in Kansas!"

"Kansas?! Who's in trouble this time?"

"Alan."

"Alan? What's he done?"

"Dad hit him up about that stupid stunt he pulled on the racetrack yesterday and Alan's none too pleased at being told how to drive a race car. They're shooting at each other with both barrels."

"Oh, heck." A hot-tempered younger brother and an equally determined father did not always make for an easy combination. "Where are they?"

"Dad's study. I guess he thought they'd have some privacy in there, but you can hear their shouting from the other side of the house."

Virgil switched off his stereo and in the ensuing silence could hear what definitely sounded like a heated altercation. "Where're Scott and Gordon?"

"In the hall. Gordon's enjoying the free entertainment and Scott's trying to decide if he should intervene."

"Intervene!? I don't think even he's brave enough to do that," Virgil commented, following John out of the room.

As they drew closer to the study the angry voices became clearer. "What were you thinking, Alan!?"

"I was thinking that the sunflowers are going to be flowering early this year! What do you think I was thinking? I was thinking of the best way to ensure that I was going to win that race! And I did it!"

"At what cost, Alan? You endangered Victor Gomez's life! Not to mention your own!" The dreaded Kansas accent had not only crept back into Jeff's voice, it had overpowered it.

"I knew what I was doing!"

"Did you? Did you stop and think about what danger you were in? You could have been killed!"

"It may have escaped your notice, Dad, but I was nearing the end of a race! I didn't have time to stop and think!"

As John had stated, Scott was hovering just outside the study door and Gordon was slouched against the opposite wall. The latter greeted his two brothers with a cheery grin. "You're not too late to catch the side show."

"How long has this been going on?" Virgil whispered.

Scott examined his watch. "They went in about ten minutes ago. They've been fired up for at least the last five…"

Alan was still shouting. "I can make my own decisions!"

"You might be able to make your own decisions," Jeff responded, "but based on what I saw yesterday they're not always wise ones."

"What do you think I am? A little kid who has to run to Daddy every time he wants permission to do something? It may have escaped your notice but I'm an adult! I have a mind of my own!"

"Yes, you do have a mind of your own. But I have my doubts that you have the maturity to use it!"

"Maturity? I'm older than Scott was when he left home! I'm older than Gordon was when he joined WASP! I'm older than…"

"Older does not equate to being more mature! Maturity means the ability to see the consequences before you do something and act accordingly."

An angry laugh. "This from a man who still lives with his mother!"

Alan's brothers cringed when they heard that accusation and Virgil glanced at his grandmother who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, listening as intently as her grandsons.

"Alan!"

"Can't you take the truth?" Alan snarled at his father. "I'm not a little kid any more."

"Then stop behaving like one! I'm telling you now, Alan. If you don't modify your behaviour on the track I'm going to have to talk to Karl Richards and tell him to get another driver."

Karl Richards was Team Tracy's manager and the man who had the ultimate say in the running of the organisation. The threat clearly rocked Alan. "You'd stop me? I've finally found something that I'm good at and you're going to stop me from doing it?"

John groaned. "This has a familiar ring to it."

"Yes. If necessary I would," Jeff continued. "When it comes down your safety and the safety of others I'll do anything."

"But there was nothing wrong with what I did!"

"It was dangerous!"

"It was legal!"

"It was stupid and it was immature!"

"Immature!? They don't hand over the controls of a 1000hp car to any kid. You've got to have the talent and the experience…"

"Or a father that controls the team's purse strings! Do you honestly believe that any team at that level would give a man of your age a chance if they didn't think they could get what they could out of me?"

"Do you know what I think!? I think that you can't handle it that I'm able to make it in the world without your assistance."

"If it wasn't for my sponsoring Team Tracy, it wouldn't be in existence!"

"Then I'd get a ride with another team! I'm good! I'm the best! I've proved myself! I'm second in the rankings and going higher; and that's through my driving, not your money! Any team would want me!"

"After yesterday Victor Gomez's team wouldn't!"

"Victor Gomez is a has-been!"

"Victor Gomez has more experience than you! I am not going to let you risk your life, Alan!"

There was a bitter laugh. "Oh, that's rich coming from you! It's all right when you're going to be the one who's going to be telling us to go out into fires and floods and meteor showers, while you sit back on your island paradise in complete safety..."

"That is different!"

"The difference is that when I'm in my car I'm the one who is in control, not you or your clone, and your ego can't stand that fact…"

Scott stared at the closed door. "Clone?"

"That's why you started International Rescue, isn't it? So that you can feel self important without actually being in any danger yourself? International Rescue is just a giant ego-trip for the great Jefferson Tracy! You don't care that it's going to be your own kids you're going to be sending into danger!"

"Alan…" Jeff's voice was quiet now and those in the hallway stepped closer to the door, straining to hear what was being said. "In light of your actions yesterday and your attitude now, I'm going to have to seriously reconsider your place in International Rescue."

"Fine!" Alan wasn't using the same vocal restraint. "That suits me just fine. All my life you've told me what to do. _You_ made me become an astronaut! _You_ decided that I was going to be stuck up in Thunderbird Five for months on end! _You _told me that I wasn't to give interviews. _You _told me that I wasn't to have my photo taken. _You _told me that I've got to wear that stupid helmet to the car so that no one will be able to recognise me as Alan Tracy! And now you're trying to tell me how to do what I do best! Something I might add, which you know nothing about!"

"I've always let you boys make your own decisions."

"Then let me make this one! This is _my_ life and _I'm_ going to do what _I_ want with it…! If you don't want me to be part of International Rescue, then great! I'm going to live _my_ life without _your_ interference! I quit…!"

The audience in the hall shifted uneasily.

"I'm past the age of consent and I can do what I like! I don't need you and I don't need them! I'd be better off without you all! And if Team Tracy decides that it doesn't need me then I'll simply find another team!"

There was a quiet, "think about what you're saying, Alan."

"There you go, telling me what to do again. Well, that's the last time you're going to do that. As of this moment you no longer have any control over me! You are no longer my father! I'm outta here! And I hope I never see you again!"

"Alan…"

The door was slammed open and the red-faced blonde stormed out of the study, crashing through the eavesdroppers as if they weren't there. In the hasty scramble to get clear, Grandma was pushed over, falling against Virgil who managed to catch her before she landed on the ground.

"Alan!" Scott admonished. "Be careful."

Alan didn't break his stride.

"Alan!"

Alan stopped and turned back. "What, Scott? Did the baby ignore you?" he taunted. "Well get used to it! Because I'm not going to be around to push about any more."

"Alan! Stop and think for a moment…" Scott pleaded. "He's only looking out for you…"

"Man, you sound just like him!" Alan sneered, pointing an accusing finger in the direction of the study. "The only difference is that you're younger and that _he _managed to avoid being shot down when he was in the Air Force. _Another_ thing that you have in common is that I don't need either of you. Well, so long, 'Junior'," he flapped an ironic salute, "because you're not going to be ordering me about again!" He slammed his way into his room and shut the door behind him.

Virgil glanced at Scott, who looked almost devastated, and then he turned his attention to the study door. It was shut and there was no sign of their father.

There was an amused tutting sound. "You've got no idea how to deal with him, Scott." Gordon pushed himself off the wall. "Let me talk to him."

"Sure, Gordon," Scott sighed. "Maybe you'll have more luck."

Gordon tapped lightly on the door. "Alan? It's me, Gor…" The door burst open and Alan, holding a case like a battering ram, charged through. He said nothing to his startled family and headed outside with Gordon on his tail.

Virgil looked at John before, without a word, they followed their two youngest brethren, leaving Scott to care for their grandmother, or vice versa.

They stopped under the cover of the front porch so they could observe without being seen.

Gordon was trying unsuccessfully to talk Alan around. "Look, you're all overreacting. Go for a drive for a couple of hours and both you and he will have forgotten about it by the time you get back."

Alan stared at him as if he were mad. "Do you think a 'couple of hours' is all that's needed to resolve this? You can't resolve twenty years worth of oppression in 'a couple of hours'."

"Oppression?" Gordon gave a laugh that didn't quite ring true. "Go and have your drive, calm down, and we'll talk after you get back."

Alan stared him in the eye. "I'm not 'getting back', Gordon. This is the last time you'll see me." He threw his case into the boot of the car. "Except for in the news: on top of the podium."

Now Gordon showed some signs of genuine alarm. "You don't mean that, Alan."

Alan snorted. "See! Even you try to tell me what I'm thinking." He strode around to the driver's side of the car; Gordon hot on his heels. Alan pulled at the door and realised that it was being held shut. "Let me go, Gordon!"

"No! Let's talk."

"I'm warning you!"

"Just give me ten minutes!"

"Ten minutes?! You've had my whole life to talk. You don't care. You only care about yourself!"

"That's not true."

"Not true? Face it, Gordon, you can't bear the idea that someone else in this family may be able to make a name for himself on the world stage!"

"No…"

"And now that I'm this close," Alan held his two fingers so they were only inches away from Gordon's nose, "you are trying to stop me!"

"I wouldn't do that. Just talk to me, Alan."

"Like I'd take the advice of a has-been swimmer who's had his day in the sun…"

Gordon looked he'd been slapped. "Has-been?"

"You go around telling people how great you are; how privileged they are to are to be in your presence; but in reality you're a nothing, Gordon. Just some flashy guy living in the past; expecting everyone to be in awe of something that you did so long ago that most people can't even remember what it was! _Gordon Tracy? Who's he? Isn't he one of Jeff Tracy's sons?_ Well, I'm not going to be just 'one of Jeff Tracy's sons'. I'm going to be a name in my own right! I'm going to be known as Alan Tracy…!"

"Has-been?" Gordon repeated, still stunned.

Caught up in his rant, Alan ignored his brother's hurt expression. "It's a pity it's too late to change my name." He tried to open the car door.

"But, but…" Gordon spluttered and then pulled himself together. "But what about our plans?"

"Plans?"

"Yes… You know…" Gordon looked about them furtively. "'Plans!'" he hissed.

"If you're talking about International Rescue, I don't care. Besides I don't know why you're worried about his _great plan_ anyway! It's not like he's going to let you be part of it..."

This rocked Gordon even more than the 'has-been' comment. "What...?"

"Face it, Gordon. You're not a team player. They don't want anyone like you. They need someone they can trust!"

"They don't trust me?"

"Yeah. They don't trust you. _HE_…" Alan pointed in the direction of an upstairs room, "doesn't trust you. And you know what else, Gordon? I don't care that he doesn't trust you. Just like I don't care about _him_ or any of them…" he indicated the house.

"You don't…"

"… And – I – don't – care – about – you!" Alan punctuated each word by stabbing Gordon in the chest with his finger; before finally pushing his brother hard, forcing Gordon to take two steps backwards. Taking advantage of the distraction, Alan jumped into his car. "I hope I never see you again!"

"Alan!"

There was the roar of an engine, the squeal of tyres, and the pitter-patter of falling pebbles that had been kicked up by spinning wheels.

"Alan…!" Despite knowing how useless his chase would be, Gordon ran after the car.

But Alan was gone, leaving his elder brother standing forlornly in the middle of a deserted driveway.

John and Virgil stepped out of their hiding place and walked over to where Gordon still watched the dust cloud disappearing down the road.

Virgil looked back to the house, glancing up to the window that opened into his father's study. Jeff Tracy was standing there, following his departing son's progress and talking on his mobile phone.

Gordon barely reacted when John placed an arm about his shoulders. "Gordon?"

"He's gone?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear what he said?"

"Yes."

"He says he's gone for good."

"Yes." The blonde sighed. "Welcome home, John," he said.

_To be continued…_


	11. Gordon

**11: Gordon**

August 15th.

Virgil placed the birthday card he'd received from Bruce Sanders on his table, before a photograph of himself and his brothers laughing together inspired him to turn on his computer. The machine quietly buzzed into life and he logged on to the home page of Team Tracy and clicked the link to the news open forum.

"Rumours abound," he read, "of the continuing rift between star rookie driver Alan Tracy and his father, the owner of Team Tracy, multi-billionaire Jefferson Tracy. Neither man is willing to confirm stories that the pair have been estranged from each other for some time…"

Virgil could confirm it. As far as he was aware no one in the family had spoken to Alan since that angry day one month ago. No one had tried to contact the young man, thinking that he needed the time and space to think.

Unfortunately, Virgil was very aware that Alan hadn't tried to contact anyone either.

His eyes fell on the birthday card again Why not? Surely today, of all days, would be a good opportunity to start mending a few bridges. He had the excuse! He also had a new cell phone and Alan wouldn't know the number.

Virgil dialled and waited, trying to decide what he was going to say.

"Hello?"

"Alan! It's Virgil! I thought I've give myself a treat for my birth…day..." Virgil's voice faded away, overtaken by the sound of the dial tone. Undaunted he dialled again.

The phone was hung up before he even heard it ring.

Refusing to be disheartened Virgil tried ringing again and got an engaged signal. Changing tack he rang Alan's home number, reasoning that would be sure to check his messages at least once today.

After three rings the answer-phone kicked in. "Hi, Alan. It's Virgil. I tried ringing you on your cell, but we were cut off. I think my new cell phone must have something wrong with it. Either that or I must have got a bad phone line. Anyway, I thought that, since it's my birthday, I'd treat myself and give you a call. I've been following you on the TV and the Internet and I wanted to congratulate you on your win. That last race of yours was a nail-biter, but you still managed to sneak through, huh? That puts you even closer to Gomez in the standings, doesn't it? One more win and you'll be in the lead, right…? Ah…." He thought frantically. "Things have been pretty quiet here. Work's carrying on as usual… A few guys are away and Butch has been seconded from Greg Harrison's team to Max Watts'. He'd only been working on his new job for ten minutes when he broke a die. Boy, the poor guy got a roasting from Watts… Ah… I haven't seen anything of Thunderbird Three come through the plant yet, but we'll be starting on Thunderbird Four next week… Gordon says he wants to paint her yellow, but I'm tempted to paint it pink with purple polka dots. Don't you think he'll hate that…? Uh… Every time I talk to John he does nothing except rave on about Toni Cullen. I'm beginning to think that he is the father but he's too scared that if he admits it Father will…" Deciding that mentioning their father's name was a bad idea, Virgil changed the subject. "Scott's desperate to test fly Thunderbird One, but the gimballed seat keeps on sticking. At this rate he's going to be piloting her lying on his back! …" Trapped in this one sided conversation, Virgil ran out of steam. "Ummm… Look… Alan… My videophone number and email address haven't changed if you feel like getting in touch. Just a hello would be great. Just to know that you're okay. But if you want to have a rant about the old man or anything you know I can keep a secret … … Please, Alan," he begged. "If you call me I'll even tell you all about Lisa being naked in my apartment! You'd be the only one who'll know the full story because I haven't told anyone else, not even Scott!" He stopped, realising that he was sounding desperate, and took a deep breath. "Please ring someone… Anyone! It doesn't have to be me… Call John. Call Grandma. Call… anyone…! Alan… I miss you… … We all miss you… We're not a complete family without you…" Feeling dissatisfied Virgil hung up the phone.

The doorbell rang.

Hoping that it was Alan planning to surprise him, Virgil rushed to the door.

"Happy birthday!"

His momentary surge of gleeful expectation deflated, Virgil sagged. "Oh… It's you." He turned away and let his guests into his apartment.

"Well a happy birthday to you too," Scott said. "What's wrong?"

"Feeling your age?" Gordon asked as he stepped into the room looking around him. "Nice place."

Virgil waited until all three brothers had entered and then shut the door. "I've been trying to phone Alan. I thought that maybe, since it's my birthday, he might at least talk to me…"

"And?" John asked.

"And he hung up on me."

"Oh."

"Three times."

"Ah." John regarded Virgil critically. "Sometimes, after you've said things you don't really mean, it's hard to find the right words to say and make them sound genuine. He's probably been busy and forgot it was your birthday. Maybe he's composing an email of apology to you now…" he gave a wry grin. "It's been known to happen before."

Virgil ran his fingernail along the top of the kitchenettes worktop. "Maybe."

"You big softy!" Gordon teased. "You pretend you're tough but in reality you're a pussycat."

Virgil, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, stuck out his chin. "Believe it or not I actually care about you guys; though I wonder why sometimes… What are you doing here anyway?"

"Duh!" Scott exclaimed. "It's your birthday and we're here to celebrate! Come on; if you like we can pick Bruce up and the five of us will hit the town. What do you say?"

Virgil had to admit that it sounded like a good idea. "I'm in! Give me a moment to ring Bruce and see if he wants to join us…" He made the appropriate arrangements with his friend and then headed for the door.

"Hang on, Virgil," John stopped him. "I've got something for you first." He pulled an untidy parcel out of his pocket and placed it on the counter. Its crumpled paper and lack of tape spoke of a hasty wrapping.

Gordon gingerly prodded the package and a corner fell open revealing a computer aided drawing on the paper. "Nice wrapping, Johnny. What did you use? Thunderbird Five's schematics?"

"Close," John grinned. "Open it, Virg." As Virgil picked up the parcel and began unwrapping, he continued gabbling. "It's something we're all going to have, but I wanted you to be the first to try it out."

Virgil held up his present. "A watch?"

"I know," John's grin had broadened, "that you've got a new one, but I'll guarantee it's not like this. Put it on," he instructed.

Virgil raised an eyebrow at his other brothers, removed his watch from his wrist and replaced it with the gift. "It's got a big face…"

"Literally," Scott said as he spread the discarded wrapper on the worktop. On it were various sketches of watches, including a reasonable facsimile of the one Virgil was now wearing. Instead of the traditional dial, or even a digital readout, the face of this watch in the picture was… a human face.

"That's a clue." If John's grin had got any wider it would have split his face in two. "Wait there. When your watch beeps press the bezel at ten and two-o-clock."

"Ten and two," Virgil repeated. "Right… Where are you going?" he asked as John headed for the door.

"Outside. Remember to push ten and two when the watch beeps."

"Ten and two. Gotcha." After he'd seen the door close behind John, Virgil turned back to his brothers. "What's he doing?"

Scott shrugged. "Beats me."

The watch beeped.

"Go on," Gordon urged. "Push ten and two!"

"If you'd given me this I'd expect it to blow up in my face," Virgil muttered. "But since it's from John…" he pressed the bezel.

John's beaming face replaced the dial. "Hi, Virgil."

"John!" Virgil held his arm so Scott and Gordon could see the dial too. "You've made a videophone watch!"

"Yep. It's not a new idea, but the challenge was to create an analogue watch that appeared to have a mechanical mechanism, but which would still work with a clear video output. This is the Mark I model, but once we've got the initial bugs ironed out it'll do more than tell the time."

"Such as?" Virgil asked.

"It'll be a thermometer, altimeter, depth gauge, music player, tracking device, compass, heart rate monitor… and anything else we can think of."

"Kind of an electronic Swiss Army knife, huh?" Gordon mused, trying to remove the watch from Virgil's arm. Virgil pulled his arm free and retightened the strap.

John, still outside, laughed. "Kind of. And once we've all got one we'll be able to be in contact with each other from anywhere and everywhere."

"Anywhere in the world?" Gordon asked.

John let himself back into the apartment. "Not at the moment," he admitted. "Only in the U.S. I'm keeping the signal out of the public network, so it's bouncing off Tracy Industries' radio masts. But once we've got Thunderbird Five operational we'll be able to communicate from anywhere on the planet to any member of International Rescue."

"Won't it be difficult to answer if your hands are full?" Scott asked.

"Nope. It's voice activated." John raised his wrist. "John calling Virgil." Virgil's watch beeped. "You'll answer by saying, 'Virgil here.' I'll set it up to recognise your voice in a minute…"

"What about our agents?" Scott asked. "I can't see Lady Penelope wearing a watch this big."

"Or this colour," Virgil added, indicating the brushed aluminium finish.

Gordon grabbed Virgil's arm again. "And Grandma won't want something this heavy."

"I'll have a chat with them and see what they suggest. Here," John reached into another pocket. "These are yours." He pulled out three more watches selecting one for Scott and another for Gordon.

Virgil picked up the remaining watch. "Three?"

"Uh… yeah… This one's Alan's," John admitted. "I was kinda hoping he'd turn up too."

"Well, the night's still young." Scott finished strapping his new timepiece onto his wrist. "Let's get these programmed and then head out. With any luck he'll be waiting when we get back." He waved his arm. "At least we won't lose each other."

After a great deal of hilarity, some good natured ribbing, and a quick lesson in the finer points of watch wearing, each brother had his timepiece set up to respond to "his master's voice"; as Gordon quipped.

Scott had another look at his new watch, saw the time, and stood. "We'd better go. Bruce'll be waiting."

"Give me a minute," Virgil suggested, "and I'll check my emails before we go…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

He checked them again when they returned later that evening, having dropped Bruce off at home. "Nothing." He opened up his web browser and navigated to the Team Tracy page, bringing up a photo of the start of the last race. "I see he's still wearing his helmet to the car before the start."

"Sportsman's superstition," Gordon explained.

Virgil looked at him. "Huh?"

"When you get to the top level of your sport you tend to get a bit paranoid," Gordon told him. "And you start thinking that if you did something this time and you won, then you'd better do it before the next competition to ensure that you keep winning. You don't want to change that winning formula."

John stared at him. "You're kidding?"

"Nope. I'll guarantee that a large percentage of high performance athletes have their own little rituals and woe-betide anyone who breaks that ritual."

"Did you have any little rituals?" John asked.

"Yep." Gordon started ferreting about in his trouser pocket. He pulled out a small drawstring bag. "After I'd won my first inter-state meet, I found this in my left shoe." He tipped a small piece of green plastic, roughly in the shape of a four-leaf clover, onto his palm. "I've no idea how it got there, but ever since, every time I've competed, the last thing I've done before I've left the changing rooms for the pool, is put this bit of plastic into my left shoe."

"You're pulling our legs, Gordon," Scott scoffed.

"Yeah," John smirked. "The left one."

"I'm serious!" Gordon insisted. "Remember how I nearly wiped out in my Olympic semi? Before that race I'd lost my lucky charm. I was frantic, looking everywhere for it, but couldn't find it anywhere. In the end I had to race knowing that it wasn't where it should be. Which…" he mused, "is probably the reason why I swam so badly. My mind hadn't been focussed on the race."

"And you found it after the semi?" Virgil asked.

"Yep. It'd slipped inside the lining of my swim bag. Straight after I found it I went down to the nearest gift shop and bought this little bag so I'd always know where my lucky charm was. Knowing that it was in my left shoe as I stepped up to the blocks for the final gave me that extra confidence I needed to win. I'll be the first to admit that it's all psychological," Gordon grinned, "but when you're about to swim the race of your life, you need every bit of confidence you can get."

"So you think that's why Alan's still wearing his helmet when he walks out to the car?" Scott asked, looking over Virgil's shoulder at the computer screen. "He said it was uncomfortable."

"I'd almost stake my life on it," Gordon said with confidence.

"When's his next race?" Scott took control of the computer and navigated to the race itinerary.

"Saturday," Virgil told him. "At Coche Del Olor."

"Saturday…" Scott mused. "Coche Del Olor… That's not too far away…" He grinned at his brothers. "Why don't we all go catch the race? And if we happen to bump into Alan afterwards…"

Virgil matched his brother's grin with one of his own. "It's the weekend so I'm free. How about you guys?"

"I'm finishing at the space agency in a couple of weeks," John said, "and I'm trying to make sure everything's up-to-date before I leave, but I can spare a day. How about you, Gordon?"

"Coche Del Olor!" Gordon's eyes were shining. "That's halfway between Marineville and here, isn't it?"

"Roughly," Virgil confirmed. "Can you make it?"

"I'm doing some testing for WASP over the next few days," Gordon told him. "But I've got Saturday off, so I'll be there."

"Testing?" Scott's ears had pricked up. "Testing what?"

Gordon tapped the side of his nose. "All very hush-hush, technical, water-based stuff." He winked. "But I'm hopeful I'll get one or two ideas for International Rescue's benefit. And I've told the brass that once we've finished this round of testing I'm quitting." His eyes twinkled. "I'm going to leave WASP to enjoy the playboy life, lazing about on our tropical island paradise with my family…"

His brothers glanced at one another.

Gordon noticed the silent interaction. His smile faded and he became serious. "Can I ask you guys something?"

"Shoot," Scott said.

"Before Alan left, he had a go at me. He said…" Then Gordon, clearly uncomfortable at the idea, gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "No. Don't worry about it. I'm being silly."

Virgil glanced at John and the latter returned the look. They had a fair idea of what was causing Gordon's consternation.

But no one had told Scott Alan's final words. "What did he say, Gordon?"

"He said…" Gordon hesitated.

"Gordon?"

"He said that Dad was having second thoughts about me being part of the team. That's not true, is it?"

Virgil could almost see the wheels in Scott's brain ticking over as he tried to think of a tactful reply.

The eldest had hesitated too long. "It is true, isn't it," Gordon said in a voice that was almost a whisper. "He doesn't want me to be part of International Rescue."

"Of course he wants you," Scott bluffed. "It'd be a bit hard for Virg to fly Thunderbird Two, drop the pod in the water, and then somehow drop out of Two so he could pilot Thunderbird Four. Besides, no one else in the family has the skills to be the aquanaut of the team."

"Then why did Alan say that if it's not true?"

Scott dodged the question. "What else did Alan say?"

"That I'm not a team player."

"Oh."

"Scott?"

John came to his big brother's rescue. "You're a swimmer, Gordon. That's a solo sport. There's just a feeling that… maybe… you're not used to looking out for others in high stress situations like we're going to find working together in International Rescue."

"'There's a feeling'?" Gordon asked, alarmed. "Do you all think that?" He looked between his brothers. "You do, don't you!"

"We didn't at first," Virgil explained. "We couldn't imagine International Rescue without all five of us being part of the team. But then you got caught up with your swimming…"

Gordon looked at each brother in turn, trying to catch their eye, but none of them were able to hold his gaze. "You don't trust me?" He stuffed his lucky charm's bag back into his pocket and sank into one of Virgil's seats. "No one in my family trusts me…"

"It's not that we don't trust you, Gordon," Scott explained. "It's just… that… You do have a tendency to put yourself first."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "Take that first weekend after you came home. We were all looking forward to spending some time with you and going to the game together as a family, and you took off with your friends."

Gordon was silent.

"If we're going to be out in dangerous situations we can't afford to carry a team member who doesn't consider the others," Scott continued. "We've got to be able to work together for the greater good. Not as individuals. You must understand that."

Gordon looked up at his big brother. "Why didn't Dad tell me this? Why let me think that I was going to be part of International Rescue?"

"Because he was hoping…" Scott glanced at their brothers. "We were all hoping that you'd... I won't say changed… more like reverted back to the guy you used to be before you won your medal. We'd hoped that this last year under water had brought back the team player you always were."

"You'd rather that I hadn't won my medal?"

"No!" Scott said the word brusquely. "We're thrilled you won your medal. We're proud of you because you won your medal. You worked hard to win it and we were willing to support you every step of the way. What we don't like is the way winning the medal changed you."

"Oh." The syllable was said so quietly that Virgil wasn't even sure that a sound had been uttered.

John crouched down so that he was at his auburn-haired brother's eye-level. "Consider this a wake-up call, Gordon. We want you as part of International Rescue. Every time I've day-dreamed about what it's going to be like I've imagined you as an integral part of the team; piloting Thunderbird Four; co-piloting Thunderbird Two; swimming to the rescue of people whose only chance rests with your skills."

"Yes." Virgil sat forward. "International Rescue needs you. We want you to be part of the organisation."

Staring at the floor, Gordon nodded. He looked at his new watch. "I'd better be going. We're starting testing tomorrow."

"Where are you guys staying?" Virgil asked. "I'd let you stay here except I've only got one spare camp bed."

Scott was wearing a troubled frown. "I've got the key to Father's place. John and I were going to stay there until the morning and Gordon was planning on flying back tonight…" He turned to the red-head. "If you want to stay with us, Gordon, I'll get you to Marineville in time tomorrow."

His eyes still lowered, Gordon shook his head. "No. I told the brass I'd be back tonight and I don't want to finish my time with WASP with a black mark against my name…" He looked up. "That's if I do decide to leave."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"… Son of the ex-astronaut and industrialist Jeff Tracy…"

Bruce Sanders' ears picked up when he heard the announcer say the name of his boss. He joined his workmates who had downed tools and gathered around the radio so they could hear the news bulletin. "What's happened?" he asked and was shushed by some of the others.

Louis Fleming pulled him to one side. "Virgil's brother's been killed!"

"What!" Bruce stared at the other man. "Which one?"

"Uh…" Louis thought for a moment as he tried to remember. "I think they said he'd won some kind of medal."

"Military medal? Scott?!"

"No. Olympic medal."

"Gordon. He was the guy who was here the other week." Bruce groaned. "I was only with them yesterday… They're a close family and this is going to hit them hard."

"Close? What about those rumours about Alan and his dad...?"

Bruce ignored the question. "Does Virgil know yet or has the press jumped the gun as usual?"

Louis pointed over to a guillotine where Virgil, his earmuffs tuned into his own private music station, worked oblivious to the personal catastrophe that had just been announced to the world. "Looks like he's about to find out."

Olivia, Hamish Mickelson's P.A., had stepped into Virgil's line of sight. With a slight frown of confusion, Virgil stopped the machine and turned to face the young woman, turning off his music so that the inbuilt microphone could pick up her words. She said something, beckoned, and the pair of them headed in the direction of the office.

Bruce glanced about to check he wasn't observed. "Cover for me," he instructed.

"Bruce!" Louis stopped him.

Irritated, Bruce turned back. "What!?"

"Tell him I'm sorry and… ah… I'm thinking of him?"

"Oh…" Ashamed of the way he'd over-reacted, Bruce nodded. "Okay… Thanks."

He'd only gone part of his journey when he was accosted by a supervisor. "Where do you think you're going?" Greg Harrison asked.

Bruce squared up to his boss. "To see if I could help Virgil."

"Good," Greg grunted. "He's going to need our support."

The two men hurried towards the managerial office. "How come the radio heard before the family?" Bruce mused.

"Jeff Tracy is news," Greg replied grimly. "Even in the days when he was first starting out in the business world he was forever being pestered by the media. People forget that he's only human and, more than that, a family man. They're interested in the big story and don't care about his or anyone else's feelings."

"I didn't hear the full bulletin," Bruce admitted. "Am I right that Gordon's been killed?"

"That's what I heard."

"How?"

"He was test driving a World Aquanaut Security Patrol boat. It crashed."

"But what are WASP doing releasing news items about things like that before the family gets to hear about it!?"

"Jeff Tracy's news…" Greg repeated.

They pulled up short in the outer office. The P.A., who had no idea of the reason why she'd summonsed a junior member of staff to the General Manager's office, smiled at them. "Can I help you? Mr Mickelson's busy at the moment."

"We know," Greg began. "We were wanting to…"

The office door opened and two sombre men stepped out. Mickelson, seeing whom was in the outer office, turned to Olivia. He smiled at her. "Would you go and see if the accounts department have finished that financial report yet?"

Her returned smile held a hint of confusion. "Of course, Mr Mickelson."

When the door had shut behind her, Mickelson turned to Harrison. "I'm afraid you're going to have to do without Virgil for a while, Greg."

"I know." Greg cast grave eyes on Virgil. "I'm sorry, Son. We heard the news on the radio."

"What!?" Virgil exclaimed. "But I've only just been told by Father!"

"If there's anything we can do to help," Bruce said. "We… ah… You know where to find us," he finished lamely. "Lou too."

Virgil managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Bruce, but I'm flying out to the hospital now. I'm just going to head home to grab some things."

"Hospital?" Greg Harrison looked sharply at him. "Who's in hospital?"

Virgil frowned. "Gordon."

"Gordon!?" Bruce blurted out. "But the radio said he was dead!"

Virgil paled and 'Uncle Hamish' placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "The radio's wrong. We've just been talking to Jeff. Gordon is in a critical condition at the Marineville hospital."

"Oh good!" Bruce said. "I mean, it's not good, but it's better than what we thought, which was bad, and I'm glad it's better news, I mean not it's not good news, but better news than what we heard…"

"Do you want to help Virgil, Mr Sanders?" Mickelson asked, interrupting the confused, embarrassing discourse.

"If I can," Bruce nodded.

"Good. Perhaps you'll drive him home in his car. You can leave it there. I'll follow and bring you back in mine. We're going to meet John there and then he and Virgil will fly to Marineville." Mickelson turned to the supervisor. "Greg. I've got a private project that will require Mr Sanders' and Mr Tancy's assistance for some time."

Greg Harrison nodded. "I understand, Hamish. I'll let Max Watts know and see if he can spare someone to assist me."

"Thank you."

Little was said between driver and passenger on the ride home. Virgil, free of driving responsibilities, spent most of the time on his cell phone with the airport, arranging for his plane to be readied for the upcoming flight. He hung up as Bruce turned into his street and sat in silence until they drove into his garage. "I only saw him yesterday."

Bruce, at a loss as to what else to say, said: "I know."

"He's such a character; so full of life."

Bruce grinned. "Yes, he was." He parked the car. "And he will be again. Keep positive."

Virgil nodded and climbed out of the car as Hamish Mickelson pulled up on the road outside.

Once inside the building, Virgil kept himself busy throwing a few items of clothing and some necessities in to a bag, while talking to Scott on his mobile. Ten minutes later and there was a knock on the door. Hamish Mickelson answered it. "Hello, John."

"Hi, Uncle Hamish." John stepped into the house and received a wave of greeting from Virgil who was saying something about flight times to his phone. "Is he talking to Scott?"

"Yes. John, have you met Bruce Sanders?"

John managed a smile. "Yes, yesterday. Hi, Bruce."

"Hi, John."

Virgil hung up the phone. "Scott's arranged for us to land at Marineville airbase. There'll be a car waiting to take us to the hospital."

"Good." John looked uncomfortable. "I've just been talking to Father…" He paused. "He wants us to tell Alan… face-to-face."

Virgil, reaching out for his bag, stopped. "Oh."

"He'd rather that someone in the family told him and Coche Del Olor's on our way. He's been in contact with Karl Richards to give him advance warning and to make sure that Alan doesn't find out from a radio report."

"He'll have his work cut out for him," Virgil said grimly. "The radio's already reporting that Gordon was killed."

"What!"

"I'll get on to the radio station and set them right," Uncle Hamish offered. "In the meantime you boys had better get on your way. We'll take my car to the airport."

The aeroplane was warmed up and waiting for them when they arrived. There was the briefest of goodbyes before Virgil did the final checks. A short time later he and John were heading for the skies.

After the standard radio conversation with the tower and John's call to their father to let him know they were on their way, the first half hour of flight through the darkening skies was travelled in silence; each brother wrapped up in their own thoughts.

When he finally did speak, John's opening remarks came straight out of left field. "I guess I owe you an apology."

"Apology?" Virgil glanced at his brother and fixed his concentration back on the controls.

"For what I said to you and what I said about you."

Confused, Virgil frowned at the instrument panel.

"I also want to give you my heartfelt thanks."

Virgil glanced over again, this time with a querying look. "What for?"

"For calling Dad."

"Huh? No, he called me... at work."

"No. I don't mean today. I mean when I was nominated for the Theydon… You did call him, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

"I… ah…" Virgil, unsure how to respond, fixed his attention on a cloud formation.

"He told me that he hadn't spoken to you. But to receive his phone call, so soon after I'd vented my spleen all over you, was too much of a coincidence."

Virgil decided that the cloud formation was shaped like an ice cream… an up-side-down ice cream.

"Thank you."

"Thank you?"

"You did the right thing."

Surprised, Virgil looked at his brother. "I did?"

"You did. You did ring him, didn't you?"

Virgil hesitated briefly before replying, considering his options. Then he nodded. "He didn't lie to you, though. I barely gave him the chance to say hello before I told him not to say a word to me, but that he had to ring you A.S.A.P." Virgil shrugged. "Then I hung up on him."

"Thanks," John repeated.

"You don't mind?"

"I was mad with you at the time, and I'll admit that I called you a few names that you didn't deserve, but now I can see that you did the right thing…" John stared out the aeroplane's window without seeing the skies passing by. "I didn't mean those things that I said about everyone. I was just starting to find my way in the world and was feeling that I was going to be trapped by the idea of International Rescue, and I lashed out at Father, you, and everyone else… The fact that they're all still talking to me makes me think that you haven't given out any details."

Virgil shook his head. "No, I haven't; and Father and I agreed that it would be better all round if he and I didn't discuss what you said. Everyone else has worked out that something happened between us, but I figured that's the way it should stay… Between us."

"You haven't even told Scott?"

Virgil gave a wry grin. "It may come as a surprise to you, but I don't tell Scott all my secrets, and I don't think he's got a hotline to my thought processes. He'd get a shock if he did."

John managed a dry chuckle. "I guess I've been looking for the right time to say I'm sorry, Virg, and I _am_ sorry."

"Don't worry about it. If I hadn't wanted to help, I wouldn't have rung Father," Virgil told him. "Forget it." He flapped his hand dismissively.

"But I shouldn't have mouthed off at you like that. I hope you can forgive me…" John looked at his brother with an expression that was both pleading and hopeful. "I said some horrible things to you, but I didn't want to hurt anyone; especially you. I didn't, did I?"

Now that they'd moved on that cloud was not an ice cream… more like an upside-down traffic cone. One that had been run over several times…

"Virgil?" John pressed.

Virgil gave a reluctant nod. "A little. But you surprised me more."

"Oh, heck." John thumped himself on the knee as if dealing out his punishment. "I'm sorry."

"You've said that. And I've said forget it."

John nodded. "Like I started to say… I've been looking for the right time to apologise. And with what's happened to…" He swallowed. "I've realised that _now_ is always the right time."

Virgil said nothing. He understood fully.

"I know that ultimately the outcome's the same, that I'm still going to be part of International Rescue, but I'm glad that I spoke up, even if I should never have done it the way I did. Now I know that I'm a member of International Rescue because _I_ want to be a member; because _I_ think I can help make a difference. Not because I'm a Tracy and I feel it's my duty… That would have only created more problems."

Virgil nodded.

"Of course now… with what's happened… the whole point may be moot…"

Virgil radioed the airfield ahead and requested permission to land…

---F-A-B---

A Team Tracy car was waiting for them and sped them to the raceway. Negotiating the track's security they were directed over to the team's base inside a featureless grey building just like every other featureless grey building on the track. They stopped outside, underneath the 'Team Tracy Racing' sign and looked at each other, before, without a word, John tapped on the door and they stepped inside.

The room only had two occupants. Alan's face was pale. So pale that his pasty features were nearly indistinguishable from his blonde hair. His team manger, Karl Richards was taking to him quietly, but the young man didn't appear to be hearing him.

"Alan," John said, and Alan started at the unexpected, but familiar voice. "He's alive, Alan, but he's in a critical condition. We're going to see him… Do you want to come with us?"

Alan looked at him, his mouth moving as if he was trying to speak, but no words came out.

"Father, Grandma and Scott are already there," Virgil said. "We need to be all together. We need you to be with us. Are you coming?"

Alan's face was blank with shock and Virgil wondered if anything of what was being said was registering in his brain.

"I tried to keep it from him until you got here," Karl Richards was explaining. "I was keeping him busy running practise laps, but he stopped to talk to another team. They let slip that they'd heard about Gordon's accident on the radio." Alan flinched at his brother's name.

"Thank you, Mr Richards," John said. "Are you coming with us, Alan?"

Richards took a helmet from lifeless fingers. "I think you should, Son. Your family needs you now and you need to be with them."

Alan looked at the older man and gave a slow, mute nod.

"You'll want to get some things together," John suggested. "Where are you staying?"

"In his trailer," Richards told him. "Come on," he took Alan by the arm, "let's get your bag packed."

Alan's trailer, despite being little more than a sophisticated caravan, was a roomy affair with the bedroom, lounge, kitchen and bathroom facilities partitioned off from each other. John went into the latter room and packed away some of Alan's toiletries into a plastic bag while Alan, clearly still numb with shock, attempted to pack an overnight case. A chore Virgil took over after his youngest brother had thrown in two pairs of pyjamas and no underwear.

It was a long time after they'd received clearance to leave the airport and John'd radioed Jeff to let them know that they were on their way with their extra passenger before Alan, sitting in the seat behind the pilot's, finally spoke. "I told him I hoped I'd never see him again."

John and Virgil glanced at each other. "We know, Alan," John said softly.

"I didn't mean it."

"We know," John repeated.

Alan was silent again for a full five minutes. "But does Gordon know?"

Virgil was glad that he was piloting the plane and had an excuse to not participate in this conversation. Not that John appeared to need any help. He clambered back so he was able to sit in the seat next to Alan. "I'm sure he does."

"But what if he doesn't? What if I never get the chance to tell him?"

"You will," John sounded confident and Virgil hoped that confidence wasn't misplaced. "Have you ever known Gordon to give up? How many times over the years has he complained about having to get up early to go to the pool?"

"Hundreds."

"And how many early morning practises did he miss?"

"None," Alan admitted.

"See. And when he was out of form and all the other competitors were winning races and he couldn't even seem to find his rhythm, did he ever give up?"

"No."

"No," John echoed. "And now is no different. He won't give up and we won't let him give up. Will we!?"

"No…"

"We're going to encourage him and support him and work as a team to get him through this. Okay?!"

"Yes."

"And we're not going to let him see that we're scared, or worried, are we?!"

"No!"

"We're going to be positive, and we're going to help him all the way. Right!?"

"Right!!"

Virgil wanted to turn around and tell John how great he was, or at least treat him to a thumbs-up signal of approval, but he knew better than to let Alan see, so he kept his eyes on the cloudy skies ahead.

"Will Dad want to see me?"

"Oh, Alan…" John softened his voice. "The only thing he wants more at this moment is for Gordon to be okay."

"But I was horrible to him."

"You were frustrated, he knows that. But remember he was only trying to keep you safe. He didn't want you to…"

Alan finished the sentence for him, speaking so quietly that Virgil could barely hear the words. "…He didn't want me to end up like Gordon."

"No," John whispered. "None of us want that."

It was time to land.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

As they had at Coche Del Olor, the aeroplane was met by a chauffeured car, which took them to the Marineville Hospital. A cold, imposing block of concrete, like the other buildings in the complex, it was on a hydraulic ram, which allowed it to be lowered underground in times of danger to the base. Virgil hoped that they'd never experience this particular activity.

A junior WASP officer met them at the car and, practically marching through the hospital, led them to a room. "Your family is in there," he announced, before retreating at double time.

The three brothers looked at each other, took a collective big breath, and slid open the door. Inside, Scott and Jeff were on their feet before they had the chance to realise who the newcomers were, while, between them, Grandma remained seated, twisting her handkerchief between her gnarled hands.

Jeff Tracy didn't smile. "You've made good time."

"It was an easy flight." Virgil went to Scott's side as John claimed the seat beside his grandmother, taking her hand. This left Jeff and Alan standing, face-to-face, eyeing each other up, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

No one said anything.

Virgil was just starting to wonder if John would consider acting as mediator when Alan uttered a strangled, "Dad", dashed forwards, and wrapped his father in a desperate embrace.

Jeff clung to his youngest son. "It's okay, Alan. He's going to be okay. He's got to be."

"I'm so sorry."

"I know…"

"You were only trying to keep me safe."

Jeff pushed his son away and looked him in the eye. "And you were only trying to be yourself… and I respect you for that."

"How is he? How is Gordon?"

Alan's whimpered query sent a chill down Virgil's spine as a forceful reminder of why the family were gathered together in this soulless room. Scott must have seen the shiver of fear because he laid a reassuring hand on his arm. "He's still in surgery."

"Have you had any indication as to how he is?" John asked.

Jeff sat down, guiding Alan into the seat beside him. "Only that he was unconscious when they pulled him out of the water. They had to administer CPR three times on the way to hospital."

"I got here as they were taking him from the emergency room into surgery," Scott said. "If he hadn't been so pale I would have thought that he was tricking everyone…" He paused. "I managed to overhear some of the doctors as they went past… They said his glucose levels were through the roof."

The Tracy boys had learnt the significance of this phenomenon in their medical classes. Virgil had to swallow down the acrid taste of bile as his brothers reacted badly to the news.

"What?" Grandma looked anxiously between her grandsons. "What does that mean?"

"It's something that they discovered earlier this century," John replied. His ability to recall facts had always made him a dangerous opponent when playing trivia games. "They realised that when a victim is badly injured and losing a lot of blood, then the body tries to compensate by releasing large amounts of glucose into the bloodstream. The more glucose the more severe the injury. Emergency medical personnel came to realise that even if the patient showed no external sign of injuries, the glucose levels could indicate a more serious problem internally and they would know to react accordingly. It's saved a lot of lives," he finished, aware that his dissertation had had a disquieting effect on the older members of his family. He gave his grandmother a reassuring smile and patted her on the hand. "If they've picked that up already then they've got an idea what they're dealing with. They're not guessing as to what treatment he'll need."

"But what treatment does he need?" Virgil asked. "Have we been told anything?"

Jeff shook his head.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

A couple of interminably long hours passed before there was a knock on the door. The Tracy men were instantly on their feet in hopeful expectancy, but it was only the young WASP officer. "Excuse me," he said, saluting, "but Petty Officers Denny and Mason would like to see you. They were onboard the rescue boat."

"Will you boys go?" Jeff asked. "I'm not moving from here until we get some news."

Scott, as eldest and their leader, took it that the directive was aimed at him and stood. His brothers, aware of an unspoken need not to let each other out of their sight, followed him and the officer through the door. It wasn't only their propensity to getting into mischief together that had caused their grandma to call the five of them "her handful". And now that there seemed to be a possibility that one of their digits was going to be amputated…

Virgil gave himself a shake and made himself think positive thoughts.

The junior officer directed the four brothers into a room where two men in WASP uniform stood, twisting their caps in their hands. Scott did the introductions before the senior Petty Officer, Mark Denny, introduced himself and his younger colleague Stephen Johnson. "How is he?"

"You obviously haven't heard the radio," John said.

"No," Mark shook his head. "We came straight here after the briefing."

"He's still in surgery," Scott said briefly as he took a seat.

"Oh," Mark Denny sat down as if he'd been deflated. "I hope he's okay. He's a great guy. A true friend."

"Yeah," Stephen agreed. "Gordon's the last person we'd want something like this to happen to."

Virgil sat forward. "Do you know what happened?"

Both men gave a sombre nod. "We were there," Mark explained. "Stephen saved his life."

"I didn't do anything. You gave him CPR."

"Yeah, but if you hadn't pulled him out in time…"

"Whoa!" Scott ordered, worry and his Air Force training putting more authority into his voice than he'd intended. "Can you start from the beginning? What was he testing?"

"A hydrofoil," Mark stated. "Designed for high speed and manoeuvrability..." The brothers looked at each other. This was a vehicle that would have been of use to International Rescue. "…Theoretically it was capable of reaching 500 knots, but we think Gordon was doing 400 when he crashed."

Virgil closed his eyes and tried not to imagine his brother coming to an abrupt halt from 740 kilometres per hour. "Why did he crash?"

"Did he hit a wave?" John pressed; his voice tense. "Or was it something mechanical? Or was it…"

"We don't know," Mark interrupted. "He didn't report any problems. But you can guarantee that there'll be a full investigation into the accident." His jaw stiffened with resolve. "We'll see to that. It's the least we can do for him."

"So…" Virgil said slowly, not wanting to visualise events, but ironically needing to know the whole story, "what happened next?"

"Obviously most boats can't travel at 500 knots," Mark explained. "So we were positioned at intervals along the course and Stephen and some other guys were flying above in the helicopter…" He took a deep breath. "One moment everything's proceeding as expected… The next…" He swallowed. "The next moment the hydrofoil's tumbling bow over stern. It was crazy! It seemed to happen instantly and yet I watched it happen as if I was watching it in slow motion! The craft hit the water and appeared to explode into hundreds of fragments. There were bits of debris and flaming fuel all over the surface and no sign of the cockpit or Gordon. At that moment I felt sure we'd lost him. That was until Stephen jumped out of the helicopter and pulled him to the surface." He gave his friend an affectionate punch on the arm. "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen anyone do."

"I didn't do anything special," Stephen protested.

"That jump must have been at least 14 feet. And to jump into the water with all that flaming junk floating around…"

"Maybe…" Stephen conceded. "I didn't really notice. I just knew that if our positions had been reversed Gordon wouldn't have hesitated to save me, so I had to save him. So I jumped in. The cockpit was relatively intact underwater, and Gordon was still strapped into his seat, and I managed to find the release lever. Fortunately the balloons inflated and dragged him and the seat to the surface. He had on so much protective gear that I couldn't see him or how he was. All I knew was that he wasn't moving. I pushed the seat closer to the nearest boat, which happened to be Mark's, and they pulled Gordon out of the water."

Mark took over the narrative. "When we got his visor open it was obvious that Gordon wasn't breathing 'cos his face was blue. At that moment we didn't worry about what other injuries he might have had, we just knew that we had to get him breathing again. It's a bit hard to do CPR properly when someone's in full survival kit and strapped to a cocooning pilot's seat, so we more or less," Mark tried to find the right words, "dumped him out of the seat and onto the deck." He clenched his hands into fists. "I hope we haven't made things worse."

"I'm sure whatever you did was for the best," Scott soothed. "Then what?"

"The skipper floored it back to shore," Mark recollected. "We'd just manage to get Gordon breathing again and think that we could kind of relax and evaluate his other injuries, when he'd arrest again. I resuscitated him twice on the water. I understand the ambulance had to do it once more on the way to hospital."

Scott nodded. "That's our understanding too."

Stephen, to the surprise of all present including Mark, suddenly threw his cap onto the floor. "Why did it have to happen to Gordon!? There's not one of the squad who wouldn't be willing to trade places with him right now."

"You know him well?" Virgil asked.

"Yeah. We were stationed with him in the bathyscaphe. You can get to know a guy pretty well when you're trapped together in a bubble underwater for a year."

Scott managed to dredge up a chuckle from somewhere. "Not being able to escape Gordon at times must have been hard going."

"Sometimes," Stephen agreed. "He can be a bit…" he bit his lip, trying to think of a suitable description.

"Arrogant?" John suggested.

Stephen gave him a funny look. "I was thinking more of 'driven'. He could be single-minded at times too. But he always made sure that his squad's welfare had top priority. I mean for most of us it was a bit of a culture shock to be so isolated from the world, but Gordon made sure that our wellbeing was looked after. If we needed support he was always there for us…"

Mark chuckled. "If we needed a laugh he was there for us too. And he tried to make it as much like home as he could. He even produced a weekly newsletter and we were all encouraged to submit our news from home, no matter how trivial. And he was so proud of you guys…" he indicated the Tracys. "You could almost guarantee that there would be something about at least one member of his family in the bulletin. Whether it was you winning your races," he indicated Alan, "or your book," he looked at John before fixing his gaze on Virgil. "You saved a woman's life, didn't you?"

Virgil felt his face grow hot. "Ah… Yeah… Well, I helped."

Mark smiled. "Gordon dedicated a whole newsletter to that story… The funny thing was that as happy as he was to boast about his family, he rarely said anything about his own life. We knew all about you guys, and next to nothing about him."

Stephen was nodding his agreement. "Yes, he is a very modest man…"

The Tracys stared at him. "Gordon!?"

"What about his medal?" John asked.

The two WASP officers frowned at him. "Medal?"

"Yes," John confirmed. "He must have mentioned his Olympic medal. At home he talks about nothing else."

"Medal?" Now it was Mark and Stephen's turn to look astonished. "Gordon had an Olympic medal?"

"I think I remember him mentioning that he'd been to the Olympics, when I first met him," Mark mused. "But he said it so casually that I thought he'd gone as a spectator. What sport?"

"Swimming," Scott told him. "The butterfly."

"Figures. It was obvious that he loved his swimming," Stephen noted. "He didn't need to tell us that, we could tell by the way he moved through the water."

"Where'd he come in the race?" Mark asked.

Scott was looking slightly dazed. "First. He won gold."

"Really!?" A beaming smile crossed Mark's face. "Amazing. Just shows you that you never really know a guy."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "It just shows you…"

Virgil was beginning to wonder if the 'Gordon' that the two WASP men were talking about was the same Gordon who was fighting for his life in another part of the hospital. "How was he before the accident?"

"Fine," Mark replied. "Well…" He looked at his friend as if seeking confirmation. "Maybe a little distracted… He's been like that for the last month since your father and Al..." He stopped: looking away from the youngest Tracy.

"Not that he wasn't totally focused on the test!" Stephen added quickly, not wanting to appear to be laying blame. "He was so focussed that at breakfast this morning that he hardly spoke to anyone…" The elder Tracys glanced between each other; wondering exactly what had caused this uncharacteristic reserve.

"Yes," Mark agreed, grateful for his friend's help. "That was Gordon. Like Stephen said, when he had to be, he could be single-minded."

"But it didn't stop him enjoying a joke," Stephen managed a smile. "Even this morning when we were about to ship out, I had to go and look for him. I found him in the locker; still putting his boots on. His excuse was that he couldn't find his 'lucky charm'. Then he laughed and said that I wasn't to worry as it probably only worked when he was in the water anyway. I asked him if he was worried about the speeds he was going to reach and told him that it wasn't too late to back out if he had any doubts. There are other guys in the squad trained in the use of the boat; any one of them could have taken over. Then I reminded him that about 85% of the attempts on the water speed record ended up as fatalities. He just grinned and said that in that case it was just as well that he wasn't attempting a world record. He wasn't worried about it at all."

"I double-checked too," Mark recollected. "He told me that nothing would stop him from his one chance to go faster than his kid brother without leaving the surface of the planet." He smiled at the youngest Tracy. "He was possibly your biggest fan, Alan. When he was watching your last race… Glued to the TV, wasn't he, Stephen?" Stephen nodded. "The brass walked in right at the moment when you were receiving your trophy." He barked out a laugh. "Would you believe he actually told them to shut up until after…?"

Alan buried his face in his hands.

John, in the seat closest to him, put a comforting arm about his shoulders. "It's okay, Alan," he whispered.

Alan, his face still hidden, shook his head, and Virgil, wishing he could do more to take away his kid brother's pain, rubbed the hunched over back. "This isn't your fault."

Mark and Stephen looked uncomfortable before Mark glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. "Guess we'd better get moving," he said, standing up. He reached into his pocket. "Here're our phone numbers. If we can do anything please call us. If we can, we want to help."

Scott took the slip of paper. "Thanks. We'll let you know how things go."

"Thank you," Stephen replied. "Look… Tell Gordon we're thinking of him. That's not only us, but the whole squad." He hesitated. "He promised us that he's throw a big party for us all before he left WASP. Tell him he's not allowed to renege on the deal in this way." He shot an uncertain glance at Alan, who hadn't moved.

Scott gave him a grim smile. "We will. Thanks for taking the time to talk to us."

The room was silent for a full five minutes after the two WASP officers had left.

John was the first to break the silence and voice his thoughts. "Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde."

"Yeah," Scott agreed.

"And we created the monster."

Alan had taken advantage of the silence to pull himself together. "I don't get it. When he was at home, we couldn't stop Gordon from talking about Gordon. Why didn't he do that at WASP?"

"If WASP is anything like the Air Force," Scott began, "you learn pretty quickly that no one cares how rich your father is and what fancy schools you went to. All they want to know is that you're willing to pull your weight with the tedious tasks, and that they can count on you to watch their backs when the bullets start flying."

"Fine. So that explains his behaviour at WASP," Virgil said, "but reverse Alan's question. Why didn't he behave like that at home? Why was he so arrogant?"

"Remember when he won that medal?" John said. "Initially he didn't boast about it much. We were the ones telling all and sundry how great he was and how proud we were of him."

"Yes…" Virgil agreed.

"After a time he must have come to believe that he was as marvellous as we said he was. Either that, or that's the way he believed we thought he should behave."

"No." Virgil shook his head. "I can't accept that that's the answer. He goosed Lisa. None of us would do that; let alone condone it."

They all looked at Alan. "What!?" he protested. "I wouldn't do that…! Grandma would kill me!"

"Okay, Alan. We believe you," Scott said. He shrugged. "Maybe we got a little bit of old Gordon plus a big bit of WASP, and WASP got Gordon… Who knows and, right now, it's not _the_ question I want the answer to." He looked around his brothers. "Everyone feel up to heading back?"

Nothing had changed. Their father and grandmother were still sitting in the same places, in the same room, their expressions telling the boys that they had nothing to report.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was hours later before the surgeon emerged from the operating theatre. He was a middle-aged man, prematurely old from spending years of repairing otherwise healthy young men and women. He was also a straight-talker, believing there was no point in sugar-coating the cold, hard facts. "The good news is that there're no skeletal or spinal injuries. Those engineering boffins know how to create adequate safety equipment to cushion and restrain the skeleton and external musculature. Unfortunately," he added before anyone had a chance to relax. "They have yet to discover a way to restrain the internal organs and stop them from trying to sieve their way through the rib cage and slice themselves open on the spinal column."

"And that's what's happened to Gordon?" Jeff asked; every muscle taut with worry.

"Yes. There is not an organ in his body that has not sustained severe bruising, including his heart. Part of the right lung is so severely damaged that we have had to remove a section about the size of a fifty cent piece. Gordon is fortunate that his years of swimming have increased his lung capacity and once healed, should he survive, this injury shouldn't cause him any long term disabilities."

Jeff picked up on one particular phrase. "_Should_ he survive? How serious is it?"

The surgeon's face was stony. "The next 48 hours are critical. If he can survive that period he at least has a chance of recovery."

"And the long term prognosis?"

"Mr Tracy, Gordon has been through a lot. His body has spent a relatively long period without oxygen and most of his internal organs have received some degree of damage… As I say, if he survives the next 48 hours his chances of a reasonable, if not a full, physiological recovery are good. Unfortunately I am unable to comment on his neurological wellbeing."

"Brain damage?" The words were exhaled rather than spoken out loud.

"His brain will have sustained severe concussive forces against his skull during the crash. That coupled with the oxygen deprivation…" The surgeon sighed. "I am not a neurologist. Gordon is fortunate that there have been significant advances in neurological care in recent years. My recommendation is that as soon as he is stable enough to be moved, we transfer him to the leading neurological facility in the country."

"I'll do whatever it takes to get Gordon the best care possible," Jeff stated. "Money is no object."

The surgeon gave a humourless smile. "So I have been told. I assume that you would like a full list of injuries and surgical procedures performed?"

Virgil had a feeling that he didn't want to know. Despite this he sat and listened as a long list was recited. Large intestine and small intestine. Urinary bladder and gall bladder. Spleen, stomach, pancreas, duodenum, liver, heart and lungs. Contusions and haemorrhages. Sutures and staples. Dissections and resections. Drains, tubes, and catheters. Medically induced coma. Medical terms that were all distressingly familiar.

At last the surgeon stopped talking. Numb, white faces looked at him, each praying that they were in the middle of a particularly realistic but painful dream. "Any questions?"

"Yes." Jeff's voice caught in his throat and he cleared it. "When can we see him?"

The surgeon gave him a sympathetic look. "I will see to it that, as soon as he has been settled in his room, you are sent for."

"Thank you."

"But I will warn you! As I said we had to remove 25% of his liver and the surrounding structures have also sustained damage. The resultant swelling has filled his body cavity and we have been unable to close the wound. We have been forced to pack the stoma with surgical pads and cover the whole area with a clear surgical dressing. This dressing acts like the skin, aiding in healing and also allows the Intensive Care Nurse a visual check on the progression of the healing process. Unfortunately the sight of what appears to be an open wound can be distressing to loved ones." He looked at Grandma and she returned his gaze with a defiant stare.

It was a further unsettling hour before a nurse collected the Tracy family. She was a bright and cheerful woman, both sympathetic to their plight and eager to do all she could to help them through this traumatic time. "My name is Denise and I'll be one of the six I.C. nurses assigned to Gordon's care," she explained as she led them through a rabbit warren of corridors. "Someone will be in the room to care for him around the clock, 24/7. Rona is already with him and she will go off shift in an hour's time. I'll use that time to get a full understanding of Gordon's condition. The other I.C. nurses assigned to Gordon are Bob, Sarah, Clare, Lance, and Bet." She stopped outside a door. "Would anyone like to ask me anything before we go in…? No? Well, don't be afraid to ask us anything at any time."

"Will he be able to hear us talk to him?" Alan asked. He'd been quieter than anyone during this ordeal and everyone stared at him.

"I'm afraid that I can't give you a definitive answer," Denise admitted. "Some patients in a medically induced coma are able to recall everything that was said to them and about them. Others appear to lose the ability to hear. Each patient is unique." She gave them a sympathetic smile. "Ready?"

No one was 'ready', but they all nodded their assent. Denise opened the door. "Hello, Rona. I've brought Gordon's family along to see him."

The nurse, Rona, older and more serious than Denise, looked up from the notation that she was making on an electronic clipboard. "Good evening."

The only response was a choking noise. It had to have been made by Scott, horrified by the state of his younger brother. Or it could have been John, equally appalled. Or maybe Alan, still coming to terms with the fact that his final words to his brother may have been about to come back to haunt him.

_Or maybe I made the sound?_ Virgil thought. _Maybe I made it involuntarily? Without realising. Maybe my brain has disconnected from my vocal chords somehow in these last torturous hours? Maybe it's my way of dealing with what I'm seeing? Maybe…_ He forced himself away from the inane thoughts and made himself look at the horror before him.

Even Virgil's fertile artistic imagination hadn't visualised this. Gordon had to be lying there, the thatch of red hair seemed to confirm that, but there were so many pieces of medical equipment around him that he appeared to be lost amongst it all. A sheet lay across his body, concealing everything from his hips down, but above that, frightening in it's size and rawness, was the open, bloodied wound.

Other than that original choking sound, no one had responded to Rona's greeting. It wasn't that they'd purposefully ignored her, but the sight of the recumbent figure on the bed seemed to have stolen all traces of lucid thought and speech.

Scott steeled himself. He walked closer to the bed, not looking at the pump that was supplying oxygen, or the machine that was circulating Gordon's blood, but with his eyes fixed on two closed lids. He reached out towards a covered foot, a part of Gordon's body that seemed relatively unharmed and, hesitating before he made contact, looked at the nurse. She nodded her assent and he gently rested his hand on the lump in the sheet. "This isn't one of your funnier jokes, Gordon."

His words seemed to clear the air somewhat, and the family moved closer, Jeff on one side of the bed; Grandma claiming her place on the other.

"We're here, Gordon," Jeff said. "We're all here."

"Yes, Honey," Grandma confirmed. "And we're not going to leave you."

The only reply was the hiss, whine and pulse of machinery.

John placed his hand on a still leg. "It's John, Gordon. We came as soon as we heard you'd had… problems."

Virgil mirrored his brother's actions. "It's Virgil, Gordon. We were talking to Mark Denny and Stephen Johnson earlier. They, and everyone else in the squad, are all hoping that you'll be getting better soon."

"Yeah," Scott agreed. "They're holding you to that party you promised them." He squeezed the foot. "So don't let them down, okay?"

Alan had hung back, painfully aware of his last interaction with his brother, and Jeff indicated that he should come nearer. Alan took a tentative step closer. "Gordon…? It's Alan, Gordon…" He reached out, finding an unencumbered little finger. "I'm here too… I'm sorry, Gordon. I didn't mean what I said when I left… I-I was angry, that's all… I didn't mean it… Please forgive me," he begged, and his father pulled him closer in a reassuring hug.

Friday melded into Saturday which dragged into Sunday. No one strayed far from Gordon's bedside, except when shooed out by the medical team whenever something tricky or delicate had to be attempted. Even then Jeff would often put his foot down, refusing to leave the room, instead taking a seat in the corner where he silently watched proceedings.

It was during one of these brief respites that Alan had passed the comment: "the race will be over now." There was no bitterness or sadness in his voice and he offered up no further speculation on the result or subsequent standings.

Sunday afternoon and Gordon returned to the operating theatre to close up that obscene hole. During this time even Jeff Tracy was forced into a waiting room. "Virgil," he began as soon as the door closed behind them and they were alone. "This is going to put plans back a bit. You'd better ask Hamish if he's willing for you to work longer than the agreed year."

Stuck for anything else constructive to do, Virgil agreed. "I'll go phone him now." He stood, heading for the door and the exit so he could make his cell phone call outside of the hospital.

"No, don't do it now," Jeff amended. "I think that, once Gordon's out of surgery and if things have proceeded as expected, you should fly back tonight. You can discuss it with Hamish face-to-face tomorrow."

Virgil, almost at the door, froze. He turned. "What?!"

"You can go to work tomorrow."

Virgil stared at him, a cauldron of emotions stirring inside him. But he kept his voice neutral. "Why?"

The rest of the family, stunned by the suggestion, were watching the exchange as if it were a tennis match.

"We're not achieving anything sitting around here," Jeff stated.

"I'm achieving relative piece of mind…"

"ACE is finalising work on Barrett Limited's construction and the Graham Corporation job will be coming through the plant this week…"

"So?"

"So, we need to ensure that all the proper quality control processes are adhered to. I want…" Jeff paused, "I need you to be there to make sure that everything is done correctly."

Virgil straightened and fixed his father with a steely gaze. "No."

The family shifted uneasily. This was not a time that any of them wanted to deal with confrontations. And that, combined with the fact that it was Virgil, usually one of the more obedient of the boys, standing up to his father, made them uncomfortable.

"Virgil…" Scott warned. But it was said quietly, as if he were trying to avoid another Alan-sized explosion.

Virgil ignored him. "I am NOT going back to work tonight."

When Jeff spoke again there was no trace of his feared Kansas accent. His voice was calm and measured. "I understand your frustration…"

"Do you?"

"But don't you think Gordon would appreciate knowing that his craft is made to specs?"

The internal cauldron was starting to boil over. "Do you honestly think that Gordon _cares_ at this moment!? Cos I don't!"

"You've tried so hard all year to keep your identity secret at ACE," Jeff continued. "I'm sure you don't want to ruin everything now. How are you going to explain the fact that you're absent from work for an extended period of time?"

"I'll tell them the truth! I don't care if anyone at ACE finds out our relationship! Gordon's my brother and I'm proud of the fact and I'm proud of him!"

"I know you are…"

Scott stood. "Virgil, settle down," he said, laying a calming hand on his brother's arm.

"Let go of me!" Virgil shook himself free.

"Please, Virgil," Jeff persisted. "Go home and keep an eye on Thunderbird Four… Go home for Gordon's sake…"

"No!" The cauldron exploded: erupting into a fury of angry emotions. "I am not leaving him! I don't understand you! Why are you worried about what everyone at ACE thinks?"

"Son..."

"Why are you worried about Thunderbird Four?"

"Virgil," Scott whispered.

"What use is a submarine without an aquanaut to pilot it?!"

There was a stunned silence.

Virgil felt the need to escape. He stormed out the door, just managing to hear a quiet "leave him, Scott," before it slid shut behind him.

An angry red mist before his eyes, Virgil stomped through the hospital and out through the well kept hospital grounds. Once on the road he turned right, then right again, then left, right, walking, turning, running away from the nightmare with no thought or knowledge of where his flight was taking him.

Over half an hour later he found himself on a beach on the edge of what looked like an inlet. The narrow finger of water was flanked on the far side by steep hills casting a shadow over the surrounding landscape. He sat on the sands and hugged his knees close, both to ward off the chill of the closing in night and the coldness of his life.

"Are you all right?"

"Have you been following me?"

"No." Scott sat on the sand beside his brother.

"Then how'd you find me? I don't even know where I am."

Scott gave a wry grin. "I'd like to be able to say that my sixth sense led me here, but the reality is that John's built GPS into these things." He tapped his watch. "It was easy to get a bearing on where you were headed and track you in the car." He gave Virgil a concerned look. "I'll ask you again. Are you all right?"

"Compared to Gordon I'm brilliant." Then Virgil sighed and glanced at his brother. "Why did I do that? Father needed me sounding off at him like Gordon needs a hole in his abdomen."

"You tell me."

"I don't want to leave Gordon. Doesn't Father realise that?"

"He knows."

"I don't want to leave in case…" Virgil swallowed and looked down towards the mouth of the inlet.

"I understand," Scott stated. "I know where you're coming from. If he'd told me to leave there'd be a hole in the hospital's roof." He paused. "But I can understand his point of view too."

"Do you know what's really infuriating?" Virgil asked. "The fact that I can understand his point of view too."

"If there's the slightest change in Gordon's condition, you'll be the first to know. And I'll make sure that you're there when they move him to the neurology unit."

"Thanks," Virgil grunted.

"If it's any comfort, you're not the only one he's told to leave," Scott admitted.

"Really? You too?"

"No," Scott shook his head.

"So who else has he sent packing? John?"

"Yes. I don't think John was happy, but I think he decided that one tirade a day was enough for everyone's nerves at the moment. But, between you and me, I won't be surprised if he applies for compassionate leave so he can finish at the space agency before his two weeks are up. I've got the feeling that he hasn't been that happy there for some time."

"I've thought that too. I figured that maybe the Cullens won't let him see little Toni or something."

Scott ran sand through his fingers. "You do realise that Father dismissed you first for a reason?"

"No? Why? Because he thought I wouldn't make a fuss?"

"Yes," Scott confirmed. "He thought John might offer up a few arguments, since he's leaving so soon, but it was Alan he was really concerned about."

Virgil was aghast. "He didn't tell Alan to leave, did he? Surely not."

"He did. He knows that Gordon wouldn't want Alan to miss out on his one chance at winning the world championship... Did you hear the result of yesterday's race?"

"No."

"Gomez spun out. He took out the guy who's currently in third. That means Alan hasn't lost too much ground in the standings and still in second place."

"So what was Alan's reaction to be told to go?"

"Took it like a lamb. I think that, like John, he realised that Father wouldn't be able to take another argument. It also helped that," here Scott offered Virgil an apologetic smile; "I suggested that you might need his support on the homeward flight."

"You did what!?"

"Humour him, Virgil. Let him think that he's helping you…"

"While you're humouring me into thinking that I'm actually helping him?"

Scott shrugged. "You read my mind…" Virgil scowled and he held up his hands in surrender. "Sorry, I forgot that was a taboo subject." He hit his brother gently on the leg. "Are you ready to head back? Gordon will be coming out of surgery soon."

Upon his return to hospital, Virgil's first task was to seek out his father. "Sorry," he apologised.

"It's okay, Son. I understand."

"I suppose someone's got to keep an eye on things back at the factory."

Jeff placed a hand on Virgil's arm. "And there's no one I'd trust more to do that…"

Bob, the I.C. nurse, appeared to the door. "He's on his way back to his room if you want to follow me."

At once Jeff's focus was redirected from one son to another. "How did the operation go?"

"No problems. You'll be pleased to know that Gordon's more or less in one piece now."

Gordon was, although he was still moored to a multitude of machinery. He lay deathly still on his hospital bed and his white gown, white sheets, white pillow case all seemed to have had conspired to drain the colours of life out of him. Even his red hair seemed to have lost much of its vitality.

Jeff stood beside the bed. "I don't know how many times over the years I've thought that he's going to be the death of me before my time..." he said, holding a lifeless hand. "But I've never thought that it would be the other way around."

His mother laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Don't talk like that, Jefferson. He'll be all right."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

An hour later, Scott looked at his three brothers. "When are you leaving?"

Alan glanced at his watch. "The sooner the better, huh, Virgil? We don't want to be flying when we're tired."

Virgil managed to suppress a sigh. "Okay, Alan. Let's go." He leant closer to the sleeping figure. "I've got to go, Gordon. There's some work for Graham Corporation I've got to see to, and I know you'll want me to keep an eye on that." He patted an unresponsive arm. "Hang in there. You've just survived the first hurdle."

---F-A-B---

The first plan was for John to retrieve his car from Virgil's place. But, after a few phone calls, he persuaded the space agency's hierarchy to let him work from their Marineville office.

This meant that it was only Virgil and Alan on the flight home. Under normal circumstances Virgil would have found Alan's continual fussing over him during the flight to Coche Del Olor either laughable or very irritating. But realising that not only did it give Alan a sense of purpose for the trip, it also helped the young man reintegrate himself into the family, Virgil said nothing to dissuade him.

"Will you be okay for the final leg home, Virgil?" Alan asked.

"I'll be fine, Alan."

"We could always continue on, I could drop you off at home and then fly your plane back."

"Thanks for the offer, Alan, but I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

Virgil's resolve nearly snapped. Managing to keep calm he nodded. "I'll be okay."

They made a smooth landing at Coche Del Olor and after one last assurance that Virgil was going to be okay alone on the final part of the trip, the brothers said their goodbyes.

Alan stepped out of the plane and a figure walked up to him. It was his manager, Karl Richards, and Virgil felt a sudden pang of loneliness as he watched the pair of them walk away. He'd be arriving home to no one.

The final leg passed uneventfully and Virgil touched down at his home airport. He taxied into his hangar, locked down the aeroplane and stepped out into the cool, lonely, evening air.

"Hello, Virgil. Did you have a good trip?"

Surprised Virgil looked at Hamish Mickelson. "What are you doing here?"

"Your father called and said you'd be in to work tomorrow. Edna's insisting that I bring you home to stay at our place. She's waiting in the car…"

For the second time in a year, Virgil gave thanks for his 'Aunty' Edna.

_To be continued…_


	12. A Quiet Calamity

**12: A Quiet Calamity**

Virgil checked the text message again. _No change_, it read. _Txt me when lunch & I'll call. S._ He sighed and looked up from his cell phone, taking in the blue exterior of the building that housed much of ACE. He didn't want to be here… not today.

Someone stepped out of the factory and jogged across the car park. "I'm glad I caught you before you went in," Bruce Sanders exclaimed. "How is Gordon?"

"Not good," Virgil admitted. "He made it through the first 48 hours, so that's the first hurdle we're over, but they've still got him in a drug induced coma."

"It's bad?"

Virgil nodded. "It's not good." He gave his friend the briefest rundown of Gordon's injuries. "They haven't even begun to check how badly his brain's damaged. They don't want to move him any more than necessary."

"That's rough," Bruce said. "Umm… Why are you here? Mr Mickelson gave me a call yesterday and said you were coming to work today, but I didn't believe him."

Virgil gave a bitter laugh. "I was sent home by our boss."

"Your Dad? Why?"

"Because, and he's right, but that doesn't make it any easier… Because all we were doing was sitting around the hospital bed moping. We weren't helping Gordon, and we were only making each other miserable. John's gone back to work, but he's working from Marineville. I dropped Alan off at Coche Del Olor last night and he'll be travelling with his manager to the next track on the circuit today."

"He's going to keep racing?"

"Yes. Gordon wouldn't want him to give up."

"Um… What's the prognosis?"

Virgil shrugged. "We don't know. We won't know until he wakes up… if he wakes up."

"Oh…" Bruce said, not knowing what else he could say that was of comfort. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I've got to be." Virgil indicated his cell phone. "But rules or no rules, I'm keeping this with me. Scott's promised to call the instant there's any change."

"Uh… Talking of phones," Bruce said slowly. "When Mr Mickelson said you were heading home, I left a message on your landline voicemail…"

"I haven't been home. The Mickelsons are letting me stay at their house."

"That's good," Bruce gave an uncertain smile. "But… ah… like I said I left a message on your phone… But it's not your message on your voicemail."

"It's not…?" Virgil stared at his friend. "It's Gordon, isn't it?"

"Yeah. When did you last check it?"

"I thought he'd give up once he'd got back on dry land, so I haven't bothered. I should have known better…" Virgil dialled his own number. He listened to a familiar voice speaking with an obviously fake Cockney accent.

_Virgil T can't come to th' phone,_

'_E's locked up. 'E's not comin' 'ome._

'_E's spendin' time at 'is Majesty's pleasha,_

_For havin' fun knockin' some Skulz togetha._

Virgil stared at the phone. "I wonder how long it's been like that?"

"I don't know…" Bruce watched as Virgil continued to gaze at the mobile. "Ah… You realise that you can't leave it like that? You're going to have to change it."

"I know." But Virgil didn't move. He continued to stare at the phone.

"Do you want me to change it?"

Virgil closed his fist around the phone.

"Virgil?"

Virgil gave a numb nod, held the instrument out for Bruce to take and, without looking back, walked away.

Later Bruce found him inside the factory. "There you are," he said, slipping the phone into Virgil's hand. "I managed to make a copy before I deleted it and I'll keep it on my phone. You've now got a plain old vanilla message."

Virgil looked at him in sombre gratitude. "Thanks, Bruce."

Bruce decided to try to cheer him up. "Of course, I may have left a silly message of my own." He favoured his friend with an engaging grin.

"No," Virgil shook his head. "You wouldn't do that… Not at this time."

"No," Bruce agreed. "You're right." The bell sounded. "Back to work. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I'll be fine." Virgil started walking towards the mustering bay. "Work'll help keep my mind off everything."

But it didn't. He'd been at it for nearly two hours and was in the process of setting up the guillotine for the final panel to go through ACE for the client known as "Barrett Limited". Setup complete his hand went out to the button to start the machine.

But something made him stop. He stared at his handiwork and then at the plans.

"Anything wrong, Virgil?"

Virgil glanced at his supervisor. "I think so. I think I was just about to make a huge mistake."

Greg Harrison gave a frown of concern. "What mistake?"

"I've set the guillotine up incorrectly." There was no point denying the fact. The numbers that were on the plans did not match those that he'd inputted only moments earlier. "I shouldn't've done that. Why did I do that? I always try to be careful. I even double-checked them," Virgil become slightly frantic. "They should be right. I could have cost ACE money. I could have cost someone their life! This is my fault! Why did…"

"Whoa, Virgil! Calm down," Greg ordered. "Let me check first." He compared numbers. "You're right. They're wrong."

"I'm sorry, Greg. I don't know why I did that."

"You've got a lot on your mind at the moment."

"But that's no excuse!"

"Virgil, calm down," Greg soothed again. "Do you want to take a break?"

Virgil nodded: reluctantly. "I… I think I need a moment to pull myself together." It was not an admission that he was comfortable making; but the truth was more important than saving face. "Do you mind if I take five?"

"Make it ten," Greg instructed. "I'll fix this."

"Thanks… Sorry… I'll…"

"Go. Don't come back until you're ready."

Virgil made his way to the locker room and sat down on the seat in front of his locker, burying his face in his hands. What was wrong with him? Was this a foretaste of what he could expect in International Rescue? Did this mean that if, while they were on a job, one of his brothers was injured, that he'd be an incoherent, woolly-minded mess? A liability?

"Virgil…? Ah… Are ya okay, Pal?"

Virgil straightened. "Oh… Hi, Butch. I'm fine."

Butch looked at him, his expression concerned and confused. "Sure?"

Virgil nodded. "Yeah. I… I had a rough weekend, that's all. It's caught up with me."

"Oh."

"What are you doing here out of uniform?" Virgil asked, trying to steer the conversation away from his problems.

"Got th' first of m' tats removed." Butch extended a bandaged arm. "Th' doc said I can come back t' work long as I keep it cova'd."

"Did it hurt?"

"Nah." Butch puffed out his chest. "Piecea cake. No blood neither. It was better than when I got 'em."

"That's good. Lisa must be pleased."

"Yeah." Butch gave a soppy smile. "I'm gonna get half m' face done Friday…" He tapped his right cheek. "Ge' rid of th' Skulz, when I've got th' weekend with no dust."

"That's a good idea."

"Yeah…" Butch looked uncomfortable. "Betta get ready." He pulled on his overalls and zipped them up, before donning his work boots. Finally fully attired he hesitated. "Ya sure you're okay?"

Virgil gave him a grateful smile. "I'm sure. Thanks, Butch."

"'Kay. Well if ya want help, just yell."

"I will." Virgil watched the big man lumber out of the room. Then, letting his head rest against the cool locker, he tried to analyse what had gone wrong with him. Last Friday, when he'd first received the news of Gordon's accident, he'd been fine. Shocked, of course, but in control. So what was different now?

Control. That was it. And purpose.

Last Friday, when he'd got the news, he'd known that Gordon was getting the best possible care and that he had his own things to do: get the aeroplane readied, pack his bag, collect Alan and fly the three of them to Marineville. He'd had a measure of control over what he was doing and why. And there was a purpose to it.

Unlike this morning when he could only worry about Gordon.

Change of mindset. That was what was required. He was at work and he had to make sure that the work was done properly. He had to do that for ACE, for his father, for Uncle Hamish, for Greg Harrison, for his work colleagues, for ACE's customers, for himself…

For Gordon.

Feeling immeasurably better, in control, and full of purpose, Virgil strode out of the locker room and to where Greg Harrison was finishing the corrections. "Thanks, Greg. Sorry about that. I'm right now."

Greg gave him an uncertain look. "Are you sure?"

Virgil looked him in the eye. "I'm sure. Ready for me to take over?"

The morning tea bell sounded.

"Oh, heck." Virgil sagged. "I can work through, if you want."

"No." Greg managed a wry grin. "You've done that often enough. You don't want everyone else to think you're showing them up. Get yourself a drink; you've got to keep hydrated."

Taking the older man's advice, Virgil grabbed a bottle of water from the canteen, and sending a text that he was heading to somewhere private, starting walking towards the exit.

"Virgil?"

He looked up from his phone. "Hi, Lisa."

"Is everything okay? Butch said you were sitting in the locker room during work time."

"Rough weekend," Virgil replied, hoping she'd leave it there.

"Oh…" Lisa Crump bit her lip in concern. "Where are you going?"

Virgil held up his cell phone. "I've got a call to make. If you'll excuse me, I'm running out of time."

"Of course," Lisa nodded, and he took advantage of the moment and hurried towards the doors. He glanced back before he left the building and realised that she was watching him go, the concerned expression still on her face.

His phone rang the theme from the movie _The Dambusters_. "Hi, Scott."

"Hi, Virgil."

Something didn't sound right. "What's wrong?" Trying to keep well away from eavesdroppers, Virgil started walking around the building.

There was a merest fraction of a pause. Anyone who didn't know his brother like Virgil did wouldn't have picked it up. "Nothing."

"Scott!?"

"Nothing's wrong, Virgil."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Everything's fine."

"How's Gordon?"

"Still under 24 hour surveillance. The doctor's checking him over now. He had a peaceful night… Which is more than can be said for the rest of us. These seats are murder."

"Have they said when they're going to bring him out of the coma?"

"Not yet. Father's flown in the country's top neurologist."

"One of the perks of being one of the country's wealthiest men."

"Yeah." Scott was sounding distracted. "The neurologist is checking Gordon now and he'll hopefully let us know the plan of attack soon. Send me a text when you're ready for a call at lunchtime and I'll get to where I can use the phone. Hopefully I'll have some positive news by then."

"Hopefully. Okay, Scott. I'll talk to you in a couple of hours."

"Bye, Virgil."

Virgil hung up the phone and frowned at it. Something wasn't right; Scott's manner had told him that. But if there were any complications then he knew that Scott would have told him. Probably it was just worry coupled with uncomfortable seats that had Scott sounding off colour.

Voices penetrated his musings.

"I'm telling you, Hamish. He shouldn't be here."

Virgil realised that the voice belonged to Greg Harrison. He then realised that he'd inadvertently stopped walking beneath Hamish Mickelson's open window.

"I agree with you, Greg. But this wasn't my decision, and from what I've gathered it wasn't his either."

"His father's?"

"Yes. It's out of my hands."

"I thought Jeff had more sense that that."

"You know what he's like. Those boys mean the world to him. He's probably worried sick at the moment and not necessarily thinking clearly."

Troubled by what he'd heard and not wanting to be accused of eavesdropping, Virgil walked away. He resolved that there wouldn't be a repeat of this morning's hiccough and then sent Alan a text to check up on the young man.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil grabbed his phone, his lunch and closed his locker door. He started walking out of the room when he was stopped by Bruce. "Can I have a quick word?"

Surprised, Virgil looked at him. "I was about to call Scott, but I can spare a minute."

Bruce looked uncomfortable. "You're going outside again?"

"Yes. It's more private."

"Mind if I tag along for a moment?"

Curious, Virgil nodded and the two men stepped outside into the August sunshine. "What's up?"

"People have been asking me what's wrong with you," Bruce admitted.

Virgil raised a querying eyebrow. "People? Like Lisa and Butch?"

"Yes… and others. I didn't know what else to say so I thought I'd stick fairly close to the truth. I've told them you're worried about a sick relative, but I haven't said what your relationship with this person is. With any luck they won't put two and two together. I hope I did the right thing?"

"I don't think I care who knows now," Virgil admitted. "I've got more important things to worry about. But thanks; I'm sorry you've been put on this spot like this."

"That's okay, I'm glad to help." Bruce indicated the phone. "Let me know how he is… I'll see you later." He hurried away to get his lunch.

Virgil found a shady spot under a tree and sent a text message saying that he was ready to receive a phone call. He'd nearly finished his own lunch, an Aunty Edna special, when the call came through. "Hi, Scott. How is he?"

"Stable. The neurologist wants to move him to his hospital as soon as he can. The Marineville surgeons think he might be able to be shifted on Friday."

Virgil frowned. Scott still didn't sound right. "Has something else happened?"

"They've removed one of the drains."

"That's good," Virgil said. "That leaves how many?"

"About one hundred," Scott grunted.

"What else did the neurologist say?"

"Mr Millington, that's the neurologist, has suggested induced hypothermia…"

"What? They want to freeze him?"

"Not quite that bad. They reduce the body temperature from 36.8 degrees Celsius to about 33 degrees."

"Why?"

"A reduction in temperature helps reduce the brain's metabolic activity and, hopefully, reduces damage to brain cells."

"How much damage does Mr Millington think there is?"

"He's playing his cards pretty close to his chest at the moment," Scott admitted. "He doesn't want to say anything until he understands what he's dealing with. He's flying out in a few minutes to start planning possible treatments. Marineville's got an excellent set up, but the Willis Institute has the top neurological hospital in the country and Father wants to ensure that Gordon has nothing but the best. He's on the phone now, arranging for a suitable plane to fly us there. I'm going to pilot it…"

"In that case Gordon is definitely going to get the best."

Scott let the compliment slide by. "If things do go ahead as planned, I was thinking that it would make more sense if you and Alan were to meet us at the Willis, rather than here at Marineville. Of course we'll have to play it by ear and see if the doctors think he can be moved. They might decide that it'd be better to wait."

"When are they going to bring him out of the coma?"

"Depends on when he can be moved, they think he'll find the flight more comfortable if he's unconscious."

Virgil had to admit that that made sense. "How are you guys holding up?"

"Oh…" There was that microscopic pause again. "We're okay."

"Scott? What aren't you telling me?"

"We're all fine, Virg. You don't have to worry about us."

Virgil wasn't convinced. "How's Grandma?"

"She's okay. You know Grandma: she's as tough as old boots."

"I heard that, young man!"

Virgil smiled when he heard the distant voice. "Can I talk to her?"

Mrs Tracy came on line. "Isn't it time you were back at work?"

Virgil looked at his watch. "I've got a couple of minutes yet. How are you, Grandma?"

"Nothing wrong with me, Honey. How are you?"

"The same as I was yesterday."

"Was it only yesterday that you were here? It seems longer. Time drags when you're waiting for the unknown… Did you have a good flight back?"

"Apart from Alan making sure that I wasn't going to crash the plane every two minutes, it was fine."

"How was he when you dropped him off…?"

They continued on in this fashion until Virgil heard the bell ringing to signal the end of lunch. "I've got to go, Grandma."

"All right, Honey. Take care and I'll talk to you soon."

"I'll be in touch at afternoon tea time."

"I'll let Scott know."

The text message and phone call at afternoon tea were almost carbon copies of the calls from earlier in the day. Scott still sounded distracted and Virgil couldn't shake a feeling that he wasn't being told something. He didn't let the sensation put him off his job though. He worked diligently and made none of the errors that had characterised the morning's work.

He'd already decided that he'd spend the night at his own place, rather than the Mickelsons' when the call to down tools sounded. Relieved that the day was finally over, Virgil opened the door to his locker in preparation to retrieving his bag.

His cell phone rang that familiar tune.

For no real reason a chill shot down his spine. "Scott?"

"Have you finished work for the day, Virg?"

"Yeah. I was about to head home. What's wrong?"

"Look, he's out of danger now, but Gordon had a few problems earlier."

"_A few problems_? What do you mean: _A few problems_?" Virgil leant against the edge of his locker.

"We were lucky that Mr Millington was here when he was."

Virgil clenched his free hand into a frustrated fist. "What problems, Scott?"

"Epidural hematoma…"

Virgil felt his mouth go dry. "What…"

"They had to take Gordon into surgery. Mr Millington drilled a hole into his skull so he could insert a catheter to aspirate the excess blood away to relieve the pressure on his brain…"

Virgil fought to comprehend what he was being told.

"They think the coma slowed down the bleed and it only became critical today…"

"Hold it." Virgil straightened. "This morning… Didn't you tell me that Mr Millington was flying out, to quote you, _in a few minutes_, at lunchtime?"

"Yes…"

"So is he still there?"

"No. He'd already performed the operation when I was talking to you."

"He'd already…" Virgil frowned at the back of his locker. "How long ago did all this happen? When did he operate?"

There was that micro-pause. "About seven hours ago."

"About seven hours ago?!"

"Yes."

"And you're telling me seven hours after it happened?!" Virgil felt his ire rising.

Scott knew it, and to counteract his brother's mounting anger he tried to keep his voice calm and quiet. "We didn't want to worry you…"

"You didn't want to worry me?!"

"Honest, Virg: there was nothing you could have done. It was all over before you could have reached the airport. We didn't tell Alan either. Father's on the phone to him now."

"Scott! How many times have we spoken since this happened?"

"Ah… Three…"

"Three times! Three times since he nearly died! And you're telling me now!?"

"We thought it was for the best."

"Whose best?"

"Ah… Yours… Gordon's…"

"So, not telling me that he nearly died until seven hours after the fact is in my best interests? How do you work that out?"

"Well…"

"You lied to me!"

"I didn't lie… I… ah… omitted a few facts."

"You promised me, Scott! You promised me you'd call me the instant anything happened! NOT seven hours later!! You…!" Virgil felt a light touch on his arm and glared at the intruder.

"Um… Virgil…" Bruce said uncertainly, and indicated the room.

Virgil looked behind him, noting a sea of shocked, bemused faces. "I'll call you back in a moment," he snapped into the phone. "And I'll be on video. You'd better be too!" He threw the handset into his bag, hauled his bag from his locker, slammed the locker door shut and, without acknowledging his workmates, stomped out of the locker room.

Once at his car he ripped open the door, launched his bag into the back and threw himself into the driver's seat. But, instead of turning the car's engine on, he fired up his in-car videophone. He had to wait ten rings, fingers tapping the steering wheel impatiently, before there was an answer. "Right! Now look me in the face and explain to me why waiting seven hours after Gordon nearly died to tell me that he _had a few problems_ was in my and his best interests!"

"We were going to tell you," Scott admitted. "One minute we were all sitting there, with Gordon lying between us as if he were asleep. The next thing we knew the nurse was calling for help, lights were flashing, alarms were blazing, people were rushing about, and we were pushed out of the room with no explanation. Honest, Virg: by the time we'd found out exactly what was happening and had dug John out of his meeting, it was all over and they were wheeling Gordon back into intensive care."

"And you didn't think of calling me then? When _it was all over_?"

"We did think about it. But then we decided what was the point? He was out of danger. You would have got here and it would have been just like it was yesterday with us all sitting about like zombies. It was better for you to carry on working without any worries and for Alan to keep practising."

"Without any worries? And John? I note you called him."

"He's in the same city so didn't have so far to travel. But, honest, Virg: even by the time he got here, Gordon was back in his room."

"I'm a part of this family too! You should have called me!"

"Like I said we were going to, but then we decided that there was no need..."

"No need??"

"Honest, Virg: the only difference between what things were like before the haematoma, and now; is that now Gordon's got a bandage around his head and another drain in his body."

"To replace the one that they _removed_?" Virgil couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"That was the truth."

"What other bits of _the truth _have you not told me?"

"Honest, Virg: I've told you everything. The hypothermia treatment is to help stop the bleeding."

"I don't believe you. What else are you hiding?"

"Honest, Virg…"

"If you say _honest, Virg:_ one more time, I'm going to ram your phone down your throat!"

Scott looked uncomfortable, but not threatened, by the threat. He took a deep breath to keep his cool. "I've told you everything that I know. Gordon's okay, relatively speaking. Mr Millington's inserted the drain and they're administering the hypothermic treatment. If he remains stable we're going to fly him to the Willis Institute on Friday. You can meet us there…"

"But not at Marineville. What else are you trying to hide from me?"

"Nothing, Virg! I've told you everything! We didn't think it was necessary to interrupt you at work."

Virgil gave an exasperated sigh. "You didn't think it was necessary. I'm calling you every break to get the latest update on Gordon's condition; I can't work properly because I'm worried about him; and you didn't think it was necessary to tell me that we nearly lost him?!"

Scott's "no" was almost inaudible.

"And who's looking after Gordon now, since the great Mr Millington has gone back to Willis?"

"The doctors here are excellent. They're clued up on most things, but they don't have the specialised neurological skills that Mr Millington has. Gordon's in good hands."

"Can I trust you on that?"

"Virg, I…"

"Don't call me that!"

The silence that followed was telling. But Virgil was too angry to feel guilty and apologise.

The video picture wobbled, Scott's downcast face slid out of shot and Grandma's came into focus. "Virgil…"

Virgil glared at his grandmother. "Why, Grandma?"

"It seemed to be the right thing to do."

"The right thing?! What would you have done if the worst had happened? Waited until I turned up at Willis on Friday and then tell me: _oh, sorry, Virgil, but Gordon died on Monday. We thought it was for the best that we didn't tell you until now so that you'd have the weekend to get over it_?!"

"You're annoyed with us. I can understand that…"

"Can you?! This is way past annoyed, Grandma. This is seriously furious!"

"I know … We made a mistake."

"I'll say you did!"

"I don't know what else we can say, Virgil. Scott's explained everything. It all happened so fast that we didn't have time to call you. Would an apology help?"

Virgil was feeling stubborn. "No."

"Then I don't know what else we can offer you…" A hand was laid on Grandma's shoulder and she looked up. "Do you want to talk to him?" She vacated the chair…

…And Virgil's father took her place. "I'm sorry." Jeff looked drawn and tired. "If you would be happier forgetting about work for the time being and would rather be here with us then I'm not going to stop you."

Virgil felt he'd achieved a minor victory. "Thank you!"

"But at least wait until you've had dinner," Jeff advised. "I'm sure Edna's got something special cooked and she won't be happy if you fly out on an empty stomach."

Virgil nodded, realising that now was the time for conciliatory measures. "Okay. I'll call you after dinner and let you know my ETA."

Jeff gave a sombre nod. "We'll wait for your call."

Virgil hung up the phone and was about to start to car when there was a knock on the window. He rolled it down. "Uncle Hamish?"

Hamish Mickelson lent on the car so that he could talk without being overheard. "Is everything all right? Bruce Sanders told me that you'd received a disturbing phone call from Scott."

"It was." Virgil gave him a brief précis of the various conversations. "I'll fly out after dinner. I'm sorry if that's going to cause problems here."

Hamish gave a wry smile. "I'm sure we'll cope." He opened the car door. "Get out of there and I'll take you home for dinner. Then I'll drop you back here to pick it up afterwards."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Edna Mickelson had surpassed herself with the meal and Virgil had eaten too much. He arrived home late and tired and unwilling to chance a long aeroplane flight in this somnolent state. As desperate as he was to get to Gordon's bedside, he wouldn't do anyone any good falling asleep at the controls. He contemplated his bag, his bed and decided the latter was calling him now and that he'd worry about the former in the morning.

His phone rang. The caller ID identified itself as John and Virgil smiled into the videophone's camera. "Hi."

"Hi, Virgil. I rang the Mickelson's and they said you'd gone home. I hear you're planning on flying back to Marineville tonight."

"I was going to," Virgil suppressed a yawn. "But I'm too tired now. I'll fly out first thing in the morning."

"I wondered how come you were ringing so frequently today yet didn't seem to be in a hurry to fly out. I didn't realise until this afternoon that no one had told you what had happened to Gordon. I don't blame you for being annoyed. If they hadn't told me I would have gone ballistic!"

"I did," Virgil admitted. "I gave Scott both barrels, Grandma one, and I'd run out of ammo by the time Father came on the line."

"I know. That was when I realised that you and Alan hadn't been told; when I heard your, ah, 'discussions' with our nearest and dearest."

"If I went ballistic, Alan must have gone nuclear!"

"Actually, Alan's conversation with Dad was comparatively calm."

"Comparatively?"

"From what I could hear over your yelling, he sounded more like a water pistol. He drenched Dad, ran out of juice, and kind of evaporated away to nothing."

"Alan?"

"He wasn't on the phone for nearly as long as you were. I think he must have gone into shock. I'll give him a call after I've finished with you and check he's okay."

"Good idea," Virgil agreed and then stopped to think. "I wonder if I should be the one to call him?"

"I thought you were heading off to bed?"

"I was, but you've woken me up a bit. What do you think, John? You're better at the heart-to-heart stuff than I am, but at least I can relate to where he's coming from."

"I don't think it'll hurt," John admitted. "If it doesn't work give me a buzz and I'll have a go."

"Okay…" Virgil slapped his hand on the table when a sudden burst of anger flared up. "I still can't believe they didn't tell us!"

"I know it's hard to understand, but they thought they were doing it for the best. You know Gordon wouldn't want you to stop working on International Rescue's stuff or Alan to miss any more races."

"Are you sure about that? I'm not sure that I know Gordon any more, not after what those WASP guys told us."

"I will concede that you have a point there."

"Just like I'm starting to doubt that I know Scott. I thought he sounded like he was concerned about something, but every time I asked him he said everything was okay. So I told myself that he was just worried. I told myself that Scott wouldn't keep anything important from me. I told myself that I was letting my concerns run away with me… I was wrong."

"So was he and he knows it … They all do. The only explanation that I can offer for their behaviour is that after nothing happening for so long, they got a heck of a fright when things went crazy. I think they were all a bit shell-shocked." John gave Virgil an earnest stare. "Would you be willing to listen to some advice? You don't have to act on it, but I want you to consider something before you go. This is just a suggestion; nothing more."

Virgil sat up. "What suggestion?"

"Reconsider flying out here tomorrow?"

Startled, Virgil blinked at his brother. "Why?"

"You know what it was like over the weekend. The six of us were sitting there like zombies, not saying anything, just watching Gordon. It wasn't an enjoyable time."

"No, it wasn't. But then I'm not expecting to enjoy it. That's not why I'm going."

"But you remember how mind-numbing it was? No one talking? The silence except for the machinery? The uncertainty of what the future's going to bring? The feeling of helplessness?"

"Yes…"

"Apart from this morning's excitement, things haven't changed."

"That's okay. I can deal with that."

"In the short term I've no doubts you can. In the long term I think it would drive anyone crazy. If, and remember this is only a suggestion not an instruction; if you decide to stick to your original plan…"

"Father's original plan."

"Father's original plan," John amended. "Then, when you visit, you'll only have to face it for a weekend and you'll be offering Father, Grandma and Scott a break from the monotony."

"How long do you think Gordon's going to be in this coma, John? Have you heard something I haven't?"

"No. I haven't heard any more than you. But it's pretty obvious that this isn't going to be an overnight recovery. When Gordon comes around, if you're more valuable at the hospital than at work, then I'll expect you to be there A.S.A.P. But at the moment I can't see that there's a lot that you, Alan, and I can do, except brood like everyone else. But, by staggering our visits, we can help Dad, Grandma and Scott cope."

Virgil thought for a moment. "I can see what you're saying, John. But the idea of not being there if Gordon has problems again…

"I know."

"Or even not being there when he makes an improvement..."

"I know," John repeated and shrugged. "And I understand your position. I was in a meeting when Father called me this morning. He told me that they'd rushed Gordon into brain surgery, I hung up the phone, said something melodramatic like _my brother's dying_,and ran from the room. I got such a fright that I couldn't bear to leave Gordon after that. I've only just got back to my rooms and I haven't called work to apologise…"

"It's been a tough day all round," Virgil sympathised.

"Yes," John agreed. "I know why you're desperate to come here, but I think you should at least consider sticking to plan A before you made the decision to fly out."

"Okay," Virgil nodded. "I'll give it my full consideration."

"Thanks."

"Is it true that Gordon was back in the ward by the time you got there?"

"Yes. They were re-wiring him up to the life-support. Hearing those bellows pump back into life was one of the best sounds I've heard in a long time."

"Scott said it all happened about seven hours before he told me."

John pursed his lips. "That would be about right."

Virgil leant closer to the videophone. "John…" When he next spoke his voice was quiet. "Do you remember last year when Scott crashed in Bereznick?"

"Remember it! It's only recently been relegated from number two to number three of the worst moments of my life!" John looked at Virgil curiously. "Why?"

"You believed that I had some sort of paranormal interaction with Scott, didn't you?"

"Yes… Eventually…" John frowned. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"I think it happened again this morning."

"What?" John looked flabbergasted. "You've got some sort of telepathic link with Gordon too?"

"No. Not Gordon. I wasn't aware that anything was wrong with him on Friday until Father rang me at ACE."

"I don't get it?"

"This morning…" Vigil spoke slowly, formulating his words with care. "I was working on the final panel for Thunderbird Five. I was nearly going to cut it when I realised that I'd set up the guillotine wrong."

"Anyone can make a mistake."

"But I'd already double checked what I'd entered. You know me, I check and double-check everything. I was fine for the first couple of hours at work and then, all of a sudden, I lost concentration. I felt out of control. It scared me, John. I could have endangered yours, Alan's and Scott's lives. I thought I was losing it."

John looked at his brother in concern. "What did you do?"

"Got Greg Harrison to check my workings and he confirmed my mistake. So he told me to take a break to pull myself together."

"And did you?"

"Yes. And it seemed to work. I thought about what was wrong with me and came to the conclusion that because I was worried about Gordon I was feeling that I didn't have any control over what was happening…"

"That sounds more like Scott than you."

"Exactly. And it wasn't until seven hours later that I found out that that was when Scott was being kicked out of Gordon's room and being forced to watch Gordon being rushed down for brain surgery."

"And he was feeling out of control," John finished, his brow creased in a thoughtful frown.

"Yes… I pulled myself together – I thought – and then went back to work. Just in time for morning tea. When I contacted Scott he said Gordon was being examined by the neurologist. He didn't mention that this was after Gordon had been operated on."

"So…" John said slowly. "Are you saying that you've got this telepathic link thing…?"

"Kyrano called it empathetic clairvoyance."

"I remember. You've got empathetic clairvoyance whenever Scott's stressed?"

"Well… Stressed and feeling out of control. He must have been feeling powerless when his plane was hit, they were crashing, and his co-pilot was injured. That was when it felt the worst for me too. Before I felt the plane crash."

"And then when they were trying to get out of Bereznick?"

"I could still feel it, but it wasn't such a strong sensation. Scott wasn't totally in control with his situation, but he was doing something about it."

"Getting three injured crewmen to safety."

Virgil nodded.

"Virgil…" John appeared to be considering each word before speaking. "If your theory is right… Have you considered the implications of this?"

"Implications?"

"With International Rescue. What if, for argument's sake, I'm injured, _touch wood_," he tapped himself on the head, "and trapped on a crumbling ledge? Scott knows this but he can't get to me. You're somewhere else at the danger zone about to rescue some victims and suddenly you get this empathetic clairvoyance thing from Scott and go to pieces. That could be disastrous!"

Virgil felt himself go cold. "I hadn't thought about that." He frowned, contemplating the problem. "But," he mused. "This morning's sensations were a lot less intense…"

"But bad enough for you to make mistakes."

"But I realised that I'd made those mistakes… eventually… so I was able to correct them. And last year… when I thought someone believed me…"

"Me?"

"Yes… And when I knew that the authorities knew that Scott was in trouble… It became bearable. My head cleared." He looked at John hopefully.

"So you're saying that, so long as you think someone believes that you know that something's wrong, or you know that something is being done… all this is manageable?"

Virgil nodded. "I hope so."

John looked grim. "So do I. I don't want to contemplate the alternative." He bit his lip. "I wonder why this doesn't work in reverse? Why you know when he's out of control but not vice versa?"

"Maybe I haven't been stressed enough?" Virgil suggested. "Maybe with me it's not a lack of control but something else that opens the… the 'link'… But…" he hesitated. He was about to betray a confidence. "Scott did tell me that he felt that I was with him when he was trapped in Bereznick."

"What!?" John's mouth fell open. "Really?" Virgil nodded. "What about when you were beaten up by the Skulz? That must have been stressful. Watching the video was bad enough."

"He hasn't mentioned anything."

"Maybe he didn't realise what he was experiencing…" John gave a low whistle as if he were releasing a pressure valve. "No wonder you bawled him out. If you knew all along that something was wrong and that he wasn't telling you the full story…"

"The problem is that I didn't know that something was wrong," Virgil corrected. "I had my suspicions, but that was because I know him, not because I was reading his mind. At the time I didn't even think that what happened to me was anything… ah…" He tried to think of an appropriate word.

"Supernatural?"

Virgil made a face. "That's going too far."

"Well? What would you call it?"

"Weird. Uncomfortable. Unpleasant. Unwanted."

"Understandable."

Virgil sighed and let himself sag in his seat. "I'm too tired to be thinking about ESP, clairvoyance, or anything else." He gave John a look of gratitude. "Thanks for listening and not thinking I'm due for a trip to the funny farm. I think you're probably the only person I can discuss this with."

"What about Scott?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. If I told him that when he gets stressed I start losing it, then he's going to start stressing that he's stressing me."

"…Especially when he's stressed. Point taken," John conceded. He looked at his watch. "Are you going to call Alan now? If you don't want to I'll do it."

"No, it's okay. I'll give him a ring before I feel like dozing off again. I'll let you know how it goes."

"Thanks. And don't forget, if you want to discuss anything tomorrow I'm only a cell phone or a watch away."

"I keep forgetting about the watch. If people see me talking to my wrist then I'll be definitely heading for a padded cell." Virgil smiled at his brother. "Night, John."

"G'night, Virgil. And don't forget to think about what I said."

After the phone call had been terminated, Virgil did do some thinking as he tried to decide which the best way to tackle Alan. In the end he gave up, decided he'd wing it, and pressed the speed dial.

The youngest Tracy's dishevelled image appeared on screen. "Hi, Virg," he said quietly, running his left hand through his hair, displacing it even further.

"Hi, Alan. I thought I'd see if you wanted to talk about what happened today."

Alan glanced down and appeared to examine his hands. "Not really."

"Oh," Virgil tried to appear disappointed. "I thought we could swap stories."

"No thanks."

Virgil's attention wandered from his disconsolate brother to what he could see of the interior of Alan's trailer. Visible behind his kid brother's left shoulder was what appeared to be a fist-sized dent in the wall. He decided to ignore it for now. "We were lucky Mr Millington was there when he was."

"Yes."

"Everyone must have got a heck of a fright."

"Yes."

"I know I did when I found out."

"Yes."

"I think Scott's ears are probably still ringing from when I yelled at him."

"…"

"Alan? Are you listening to me?"

Alan looked up at Virgil "I never thought he could be so cruel."

Virgil stared at his youngest brother. "Huh?"

"Was it because he's mad at me for walking out?"

Virgil, trying to find some logic behind Alan's words could only utter: "What?"

"And Scott? D'ya think it was his idea?"

Totally bemused now, Virgil scratched his head.

"D'ya think he put Dad up to it? Maybe it was some kind of punishment?"

"Punishment?"

"Or maybe they were trying to make a point…?"

"A point?"

"Maybe they think that I still don't want to be part of the family? But I do, Virgil!"

"I know you do, Alan. That's obvious, but…" Virgil paused. "What are you talking about?"

Alan glanced at the video screen. "I think Dad and Scott hate me," he whispered.

With a horrible feeling of déjà vu, Virgil stared at his brother. "Alan?"

"They didn't tell me when Gordon got really sick." Alan's voice was so quiet that the microphone was barely picking it up. "They didn't want me to know. They didn't want me to be there with him."

Virgil was beginning to wonder what went into the genetic makeup of blonde Tracys to make them so insecure. "They didn't want to tell you because they didn't want to worry you."

"But how could they hide it from me? Why wait hours before telling me?"

"They did what they thought was right, Alan," Virgil soothed. "And now they've had a chance to think about it, they realise that it was the wrong thing to do. But at the time they did what they thought was best for everyone."

"But what would they have done if Gordon had died…?"

"I don't know," Virgil admitted. "Probably flown out to tell us face-to-face rather than over the phone. I only hope we never have to find out… Hey, come on," he cajoled, seeing Alan's disconsolate expression," cheer up. It didn't happen." His words seemed to have no effect. "Tell me what happened when you spoke to Father. Where were you when you got the phone call?"

"We always have a few drinks after practise… It's time to unwind and go over the day without the pressures of trying to squeeze that little extra speed out of the car… Then I got that phone call…"

"What did he say?"

Alan bit his lip as he tried to remember. "That Gordon had taken a turn for the worse. When he said that he'd been rushed into surgery with an epidural hematoma I flipped. I was scared, Virg. I haven't told Gordon that I'm sorry for what I said to him and for a moment I thought I'd never get the chance."

"He knows, Alan," Virgil stated.

"But I haven't told him!"

Virgil made no comment. "Then what happened?"

"I think I went into shock. Once Dad had said that Gordon was out of immediate danger I was so relieved that I kinda didn't really listen to anything else he said. I mean, I heard him say that all the drama had happened hours earlier, but it didn't sink in. I finished the phone call, said goodnight to the guys, and went back to my trailer and started cooking dinner. That was when I started thinking about what Dad had actually said. That was when I realised that they hadn't wanted me to know." Alan's voice had faded away to a whisper again. He looked down.

"How's your hand?"

"Huh?" Alan looked up sharply. "What?"

It was a guess, but an educated one. "Show me your hand, Alan."

Alan pretended to be surprised by the question. "If you insist, but I don't know why you're interested." He raised his left hand so it was visible to the camera. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"How about your right hand?"

"Oh," Alan gave what was supposed to be an unconcerned shrug. "It's fine."

"Let me see."

"Virgil!"

"Alan!"

Alan gave an exasperated sigh and held up his right hand, palm facing the camera. "Happy now?"

"No. I want to see the back of your hand."

Alan hesitated. Then, with a beaten look on his face, he turned his arm. The knuckles were red and grazed, and there was a small cut on the joint of the middle finger. "I, ah, I was adjusting a bolt on the car and I knocked it against the chassis.

"Were you working on your car in your trailer?"

"In my trailer?"

"Look behind you, Alan. There's a hole in the wall that wasn't there on Friday."

Alan didn't look over his shoulder. Instead he lowered his hand and his eyes.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. I put ice on it straight away." Alan flexed his fingers. "It's fine."

"Good. Did punching the trailer wall make you feel better?"

"No." Then Alan gave a wry grin. "And neither did decorating it with spaghetti sauce. How come you guys know me so well?" he complained.

"Because we've known you all your life," Virgil responded. "That's why Gordon knows that you didn't mean what you said to him."

"Are you sure? What if he crashed because he was worried about me and what I said?"

"You heard those WASP guys say that once he got in the hydrofoil his full concentration was on that boat."

"Maybe… But I still don't understand. Why didn't Dad tell me earlier? Why didn't Scott or Grandma call me?"

"I don't know exactly," Virgil admitted. "But I _do_ know that they don't hate you," he reinforced. "And _if_ they didn't tell you because they hate you, then they can't be that fond of me either and I don't think I've done anything to upset anyone… Well," he amended, "nothing prior to when they told me about Gordon's emergency surgery."

"Huh?" Alan's face creased into a confused frown.

"I've been texting and ringing all day and everyone kept on telling me that Gordon was fine. Then I got a phone call from Scott at four-o-clock my time to break the news. They made a point of telling me after work. That's probably why they didn't tell you earlier, so that there was no chance that I could find out from anyone but them."

Alan's eyes were wide with surprise. "They didn't tell _you_ before that?"

"No. Scott said they didn't want me to worry. They wanted me to carry on working and they wanted you to carry on practising."

Intrigued by the revelations, Alan leant closer to the phone. "What did you say when you found out?"

"I ranted and I raved. I accused Scott of lying to me and I told him I was going to ram his phone down his throat…"

"You did what!?"

"Then I yelled at Grandma… And by the time Dad came on the line I'd calmed down a little bit. That was when he said that if I wanted to give up work in the interim and wait at the hospital with them he wasn't going to stop me."

"Are you going to?" Alan asked.

"No," Virgil replied, and then realised that he'd made the decision without really thinking about it. "I had a chat to John and he pointed out that I'd achieving more here than I would in Marineville."

"But what if something happens to Gordon?"

"What could I do? And Thunderbird Four's about to start going through the plant. When International Rescue is fully operational and Gordon's one-hundred-percent fit again, I'm going to make sure that his submarine's up to standard."

Alan nodded and he frowned in thought. "I think I'm going to quit the series. It's not important like what you're doing."

"Your races may be not important to International Rescue," Virgil said. "But they're important to you; everyone knows that. You can't give up now. Not when you're so close to winning the World Championship."

"But Gordon…"

"But Gordon wouldn't want you to give up on your dream..."

"Maybe…"

"No. Definitely… Has anyone told you what we four had planned for last Saturday?"

Alan looked bemused by the perceived change in topic. "No?"

"We were going to meet up at Coche Del Olor and catch your race. Then afterwards we were going to 'accidentally-on-purpose' bump into you."

"You were?"

Virgil nodded. "It was Scott's idea."

A small smile formed on Alan's face. "It was?"

"Gordon was looking forward to it."

"He was?"

"He had that gleam in his eye that he gets when he was excited about something."

"He did?" Alan beamed, and then watched as Virgil's face clouded over. "What's wrong?"

Virgil's thought processes had gone beyond their planning session for Saturday. "I've just remembered the last things the three of us said to Gordon... I think we upset him." He slumped back in his chair. "I hope it wasn't preying on his mind on Friday."

Alan looked alarmed. "What did you say?"

"He… He asked us about…" Virgil hesitated, worried that he was about to open raw wounds again. "He asked us if what you'd said about him not being wanted by International Rescue was true."

Startled, Alan stared at him. "What did you tell him?"

Virgil bit his thumbnail. "That we _all_ had concerns about his ability to be a team player. John tried to soften the blow by saying that swimming's a solo sport and we thought he was out of practise of working with others."

"Is that why those WASP guys said he was more distracted the morning before the accident?"

Subdued by this train of thought, Virgil nodded and fixed his younger brother with an earnest stare. "If anyone in the family had anything to do with Gordon's accident, it was us."

"That can't be right. Like you said before, Gordon was focused on driving that boat. The accident had to have been caused by a mechanical fault."

"I hope so."

Trying to think of something to lighten the mood of the conversation, Alan watched as Virgil sat troubled by the knowledge that he might have inadvertently been a catalyst in Gordon's accident. Then the younger Tracy brightened. "Did you really threaten to ram Scott's cell phone down his throat?"

Dragged out of his introspective reflections, Virgil managed a chuckle. "Yes. I got sick of him patronising me."

"Was this going to be a free show anyone could enjoy, or would I have to pay for viewing privileges?"

Virgil laughed. "Alan, just for you I'd arrange complimentary tickets."

"Thanks." Alan grinned before his smile slid into an expression of concern. "You're looking tired."

"I am. That's why I'm not already in Marineville."

"I thought you weren't planning on going."

"As of this moment I'm not. Tomorrow I might change my mind... You?"

"Ditto," Alan admitted. "You'd better get some sleep, just in case you do change your mind. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Okay, Alan. I'll send you a text when I'm not working. We'll have to try to co-ordinate our schedules."

Alan grinned. "Right. Catch you tomorrow. Night."

"Night." The videophone screen went blank and Virgil reached out for another speed dial button. Then he stopped, gave a grin of his own, and lifted his arm. "Virgil calling John."

A delighted smile replaced the watch's face. "Virgil! You remembered how to use it."

"It's not exactly rocket science."

John laughed. "How'd it go with Alan?"

"I've just got off the phone. I think he's okay."

"That's good."

"You two are more alike than you realise."

John's face creased into a confused frown. "I'm like the petrolhead? How did you figure that one out?"

Virgil grinned. "Well, you're both blonde for a start."

"Remember blondes have more fun. Apart from the obvious, what else?"

"Let me put it this way. So that he can say that he hasn't spoken to me, why don't you call Father and get him to give Alan a call. A bit of parental endorsement won't go amiss."

"Oh." John understood the implication immediately. "How come?"

"Sorry, John. I haven't told anyone what was said between us, and I not going to betray Alan's confidence either."

"But it was something to do with today?"

"Yes."

"Fair enough," John sighed. "Okay, Virgil. I'll give the old man a call and you can finally get to bed."

"Thanks, John. I'll talk to you tomorrow. I hope it'll be a quiet day."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil didn't fly to Marineville the next day. Instead he kept his cell phone close, ready to respond to the most trivial of calls; until Greg Harrison found him checking a text message between jobs. The supervisor held out his hand and Virgil, feeling like a guilty schoolboy, gave him the phone, not expecting to see it again that day. He was pleasantly surprised when, seconds before the bell signalling the break sounded, it was returned to him. Not a word was said between the two men, but the implication was clear. If Virgil was going to be there then work time was for work. What he did in his own time was his own business.

And most of Virgil's own time was spent on the phone, either deep in conversation with some member of his family or receiving and responding to text messages. He practically ignored most of his workmates during breaks and Bruce took to spending the free time with Butch and Lisa.

It was at lunchtime on Tuesday and Virgil was sitting in his car when he received his first post-disagreement videophone call from Scott. "Are you still talking to me?"

Virgil managed an apologetic grin. "I'd rather talk to you than yell at you."

"And you only yell at me when I deserve it. I'm sorry, Virg…" Scott apologised, belatedly remembering to add the last syllable, "…gil."

"And I'm sorry I overreacted."

"You didn't overreact." Scott's eyes were down. "I would have behaved in exactly the same way if I'd been in your shoes. Except that I wouldn't have tried to talk it through. I would have been in my plane flying here… Ready to ram a cell phone down someone's throat."

Virgil chuckled. "Honest, Scotty?"

Scott gave a wry smile in reply. "Honest, Virg." He looked up, making sure that he held his brother's eye. "Are we okay? You and me?"

"We're fine, Scott. So long as you don't do that to me again. The slightest change in Gordon's condition you've got to call me! Either on my phone or through ACE, but tell me!"

"Yeah, okay."

"Promise me, Scott!" Virgil sat forward. "Promise me that you'll call if something happens to Gordon!"

"I will."

"Scott! I need you to make a promise that you'll call me straight away!" Virgil clenched his fists in frustration. "Promise me you won't wait a minute! This is important!"

"Virgil?"

"I need to hear you say it! Say you'll promise to call me!"

Scott, looking surprised at Virgil's insistence, responded. "Of course I promise I'll call you! I've learnt my lesson. You can trust me."

Virgil smiled, surprised at the relief he felt. "I know… Thanks."

Scott stared at his brother, a concerned frown on his face. "Is everything okay with you?"

"It is now…. How is Gordon?"

"No change…"

_To be continued…_


	13. A Quiet Wait

_Chapter 13 – unlucky for the Tracys?_

**13: A Quiet Wait**

The helijet touched down on the airstrip in a landing so gentle that those observing couldn't pick the moment when it came to rest.

"Smooth, Scotty," Alan commented, impressed by the deftness of the landing.

"Did you expect any less?" John asked, shouting to make himself heard over the whine of the engines.

"No."

As the noise decreased in volume and the four members of the Tracy family present began the trek across the tarmac towards the helijet, Virgil had to admit that while his eldest brother was naturally gifted at most things he tried, control of any type of aircraft was where he excelled. If he could be half as good at flying the future Thunderbird Two, he'd be happy.

A hover-ambulance quietly overtook them, wafting currents of warm air as it glided past on its cushion; the words 'Willis Institute' painted on its flanks.

"They're not rushing," Grandma commented. "I hope that's a good sign."

"It means no one's panicking," John pointed out. "So there can't have been any complications during the flight."

Scott had disembarked and was walking towards his family, doing up his Air Force flight jacket at the same time. "Good flight?" Virgil asked.

"No worries," Scott responded. "The medical team's getting him sorted now. Father will travel with him in the ambulance and the rest of us will meet them there."

The family had come to a stop by the helijet. They stood back as the doors slid open to reveal a lift occupied by a single individual, dressed in an immaculate navy suit, wearing a trilby hat and carrying a case that suggested that he travelled with a purpose.

"How did you find the flight, Mr Millington?" Scott asked.

The neurologist held out his hand. "Scott," he beamed as they shook, "I will admit that I had my concerns when I heard that Mr Tracy's son was going to fly this craft instead of a professional pilot. I had the misguided idea that your father was determined to stamp his authority over this transfer at the expense of common sense. I was wrong."

Scott grinned. "You've got a lot to learn about my father, Sir. If he hadn't thought I was up to the task he wouldn't have suggested that I act as pilot."

"So I am learning. Please accept my apologies for my lack of faith in your abilities."

"Not a problem." Scott introduced Virgil and Alan. "How's Gordon?"

"Doing well. That flight was so smooth that I doubt it had any adverse affects on him. Now," Mr Millington shifted his case to his other hand, "if you'll excuse me I must go and ensure that everything is ready for my patient." He tipped his trilby in the direction of Mrs Tracy. "I will see you all soon." He walked smartly across the airfield, mounted a travelator, and was whisked away to the main building of the Willis Institute on the far side of the complex.

The lift doors opened again and Jeff Tracy was the first to exit. "Well done, Scott," he said, standing to one side to allow the remainder of the elevator car's passengers to disembark.

"Thanks," Scott's face tightened as he watched as his deeply unconscious brother was wheeled out from the helijet and into the back of the waiting ambulance. "Mr Millington said Gordon had no problems with the flight."

"No…" Jeff's attention was caught by one of the ambulance officers. "I'd better go. Meet you at the hospital." He climbed into the ambulance and the vehicle glided off towards the Willis.

A short travelator ride later and the entire Tracy family were together in a waiting room. There had been no time for the patient or his carers to settle into the new environment as Mr Millington had decreed that he needed a complete diagnosis of Gordon's condition before he would allow him to be brought out of the drug-induced coma.

And so everyone waited…

And waited…

And waited…

Jeff tried to kill some time. "What time did you leave, Virgil?"

"Straight after work at 4.00pm." Virgil looked guiltily at his father and boss. Once he'd cooled down on Monday, he'd realised the folly of heading back to Marineville. His phone call after dinner had been to let his family know that they'd see him on Friday. "As soon as the final bell had rung, I was in my car and out of there. I picked up Alan on the way and we flew straight here."

"Yep," Virgil's youngest brother nodded his agreement. "Karl let me cut short my practice today."

"When's your next race?" Jeff asked.

"In a few weeks."

"Well, don't feel that you have to stay here if you think you need the time to get to know the track."

"Don't worry about me, Dad. I'll give myself plenty of time, but I'm not leaving Gordon until we get some idea of what the prognosis is likely to be."

Jeff nodded his assent. "When are you finishing work, John?"

"I hope to slip out of there as soon as they'll let me go on Friday. If anyone's planning a big farewell party for me, they'll be having it without the guest of honour."

Jeff gave his second eldest a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not. You know I can't wait to leave."

Time dragged on…

And on…

And on…

Virgil was just starting to wonder if there would be time to try and search out something to eat when Mr Millington entered the room. Instead of his immaculate suit he now wore a doctor's lab coat. His face was inscrutable.

Jeff was on his feet. "Well?"

"Take a seat, Mr Tracy." Mr Millington, following his own advice, pulled up a chair and sat down. "I have a lot to explain to you… All of you... And it's not all good." He opened a thick folder and donned a pair of spectacles as Virgil tried to ignore the fact that his stomach seemed determined to do somersaults. "Firstly we have conducted numerous scans of Gordon's skull and brain tissue…" The doctor paused. "There is a massive amount of damage, principally on the right side of his brain. The epidural haematoma that I aspirated at Marineville was the largest of several areas of bruising …" He stopped, looked at the wide-eyed group and then started speaking again, working through his notes.

Virgil, despite his recently acquired medical knowledge, was struggling with much of what he was being told. Phrases like "permanent damage", "disability", "paralysis", "speech impediment", "reduced mobility", "loss of function" and "unknown factors" seemed to rear their heads with alarming regularity. Every now and then an "I am hopeful that…" was handed out to the assembled group and Virgil grabbed at it like a lifeline.

"…In summary," Mr Millington closed his folder and removed his spectacles, "although neurology has made huge advances in the last few years, I can not categorically state what Gordon's long term prognosis will be. We now have a good idea of what we are dealing with, but, until he regains full consciousness, it is impossible to decide on the correct form of treatment. The brain is a highly complex organ, and the wrong decision, made too early, could have a permanent, negative impact. I propose to bring Gordon out of the coma over the next 24 hours and then reassess the situation."

Jeff Tracy nodded, his face grey. "Thank you for being to frank with us, Mr Millington."

"I'll warn you now, Mr Tracy. There is no 'overnight fix' for injuries such as those Gordon has suffered. We are at the beginning of a long, hard road."

"But he will live?" It was Alan who had asked everyone's silent question.

"I have observed nothing that gives me cause for concern for Gordon's continued survival," Mr Millington reassured him. "His surgeons at Marineville have informed me that his other injuries are healing well, which is why they were willing to let him be moved… But only time will tell how fully he will be able to live his life."

"So he," Scott cleared his throat, "he could spend the rest of his life as… as a… ah… in a vegetative state?"

The country's top neurologist regarded him with grave eyes. "There is always that possibility. We will know more when he is no longer in the coma."

Scott acknowledged the response with a quiet, "thank you."

"Does anyone else have any questions?" Mr Millington looked around the subdued group. "I know it is a lot to take in, in a short space of time. Please, feel free to come to me if you have any issues you wish to discuss."

"Can we see him now?" Grandma asked, her voice strong despite the dire news she'd received.

Mr Millington smiled. "Of course. I'll arrange for one of our nurses to take you down as soon as he's been settled in his room."

It was another ten minute wait before the Tracys were guided out of the waiting room and down a long hall to Gordon's ward.

Apart from a nurse who sat at her station unobtrusively off to one side, Gordon was the room's only occupant. Except for the fact that he'd been removed from the respirator only days before, Virgil couldn't discern any noticeable change in his brother's condition. Gordon was still pale; seemingly as pale as the linen that surrounded him and the bandages that bound his head. He lay, ghost-like, on his bed.

The nurse who had guided them from the waiting room indicated a door off to one side. "At the Willis Institute we are aware that contact with their family is a large factor in a patient's ability to recover," she said. "Through there you will find two bedrooms and a small living area for your private use. In situations where family members' presence is not required during treatment, this door will be locked. There is another door from your rooms leading out to the main corridor."

Jeff pulled up a seat next to one side of his son's bed and sat down. "We're here, Gordon," he said, placing a hand on an unresponsive arm. "This is going to be our home until you are ready to leave."

Later, when Virgil finally got around to viewing the attached rooms he discovered that while the hospital was geared towards providing the best care for its patients, only the bare necessities were supplied for family members. Each of the two bedrooms were big enough to hold a single bed and a chest of drawers, the washroom with hand basin, toilet and shower seemed to be postage-stamp sized, and the living area, with its drink-making facilities, wasn't much bigger.

But now, in those first hours at the Willis Institute, no one was inclined to check out the accommodation and no one slept in the beds that night. They all sat by Gordon's bedside, waiting for the moment when he would come out of the drug-induced coma.

Waiting for the moment when he would show signs of life.

It didn't happen.

Twenty four hours after Gordon had been moved into his new quarters, Mr Millington checked for signs of improvement. When he straightened he looked grim. "I'm sorry, but Gordon is still deeply unconscious. I would classify him as being grade three on the Modified Glasgow Coma Scale. We'll do more tests to see if we can discover the cause, but, as I said before, the brain is a complex organ. As much as we do know about it now, there is still much more to be learnt."

"He's still in the coma?" Jeff clarified and Mr Millington nodded his confirmation. "But I thought you said that you'd bring him out of it after 24 hours. Why isn't he waking up?"

"I do not know."

"Grade three?" Grandma exclaimed. "What's grade three?"

"The Glasgow Coma Scale evaluates three functions," Mr Millington explained. "Eye reaction, verbal communication and motor abilities. We evaluate each of these functions assigning a value for each function depending on response. A fully conscious person rates a grade 15. That is they open their eyes spontaneously, they are able to converse normally, and they are able to obey simple commands. At the lowest end of the scale, grade three, the person does not open their eyes, they make no sounds, and they do not move even as a response to pain." He hesitated. "Grade three is the value we apply to people who are in a deep coma or who are dead."

Saturday dragged into Sunday morning.

The family attempted to keep talking to Gordon, but it was becoming harder and harder to think of things to say. So they bought copies of various newspapers and magazines to read out loud…

John grabbed a woman's magazine from Alan. "Why have you bought that?!"

"He hates them."

"Exactly! So why are you going to force him to listen to you read one?"

Alan grabbed the magazine back. "If he doesn't like it, then he can wake up and tell me himself…!" He leant over his comatose brother. "Do you hear me, Gordon? I'm going to read this until you stop me…!"

Sunday morning dragged into Sunday afternoon.

The tension was beginning to get on everyone's nerves.

"Come on, Gordon," Grandma pleaded, rubbing an unresponsive arm. "It's time to wake up… Please, Honey…"

Gordon didn't move.

"It's a beautiful day out there…"

Nothing.

"The sun's shining, the birds are singing. It's a perfect day for a trip to the beach for a swim…"

No reaction.

What happened next startled everyone out of their stupor. "Gordon Tracy!" Grandma shouted. "If you don't wake up this instant, I'm never going to make you another apple pie!"

It looked so funny; a little old lady yelling at an unconscious man about baking, that someone laughed…

…And Virgil, to his horror, realised that it was him. Mortified he fled the room and collapsed into one of the seats in the hall, burying his head in his hands.

"Are you all right?"

Virgil pressed his palms into his eyes, unable to look at Scott. He shook his head. "No."

He felt Scott sit next to him and place an arm about his shoulders. "Can I help?"

"What's wrong with me?" Virgil straightened, but couldn't look at his brother, instead he gazed straight ahead. "I laughed! Why did I laugh? That wasn't funny."

"Gordon probably wouldn't agree with you."

"Gordon, and everyone else, probably thinks that I don't care about what's happened to him."

Scott gave Virgil's tense shoulders a squeeze. "Now, that's not true… This is hard for all of us. You're just reacting to a difficult situation in your own way."

"Come off it, Scott! That is not me! I'm the one without the sense of humour, remember?" Still unable to face his brother, Virgil got to his feet and stalked across to the other side of the hall, thumping the wall with his fist.

"Nonsense!" Scott rebuked him. "You do have a sense of humour. It's just different to the rest of us. You're more reactive rather than proactive when telling jokes."

"What joke?" Virgil turned around. He leant against the wall, fixing his attention on the ceiling so he didn't have to look at Scott. "There is nothing funny about what's going on in there."

"You know what Gordon's like," Scott soothed. "If one of us was down, we could always count on him to try and cheer us up. I'd wager that he's glad that at least one of us has managed to find some humour in this situation and is probably wishing that the rest of us would do the same."

Virgil finally found the strength to look Scott in the eye. "Do you think so?"

"I know so. And so do you! Gordon wouldn't want us to be upset."

"Okay, so Gordon's forgiving..." Virgil didn't really believe it. He indicated the room. "What about them."

"_Them_ will forgive you too. We've all had our moments; just like you... only you haven't been here to see them."

Virgil took a deep breath before he reclaimed his seat. "You too?"

"Yeah." Scott nodded. "Me too. I'll tell you about it sometime." He nudged his brother. "Are you coming back inside?"

"Give me a minute. I... I need to pull myself together."

"Okay," Scott agreed. "No rush." He stood and looked down at Virgil. "Don't beat yourself up. This is a new situation for us all. None of us knows how we're going to behave."

Virgil waited a full five minutes after Scott had left before he returned to Gordon's room. He expected signs of disappointment from his family, but no one said anything. Instead he received an understanding smile from his father, a hug from his grandmother, a wink from Alan, and friendly squeeze about the shoulders from John.

Gordon said and did nothing.

When the time arrived for Virgil and Alan to return to their respective homes, Virgil realised that, as desperate as he had been to remain at Marineville last week, he was equally keen to leave the hospital today.

He was not the only one to have this guilty feeling of relief. "I hate to say it," Alan admitted as he buckled up his safety harness in preparation for take off, "but I'm glad to be out of there."

Virgil glanced at him before taxiing onto the runway. "You too?"

"Yeah. It's just not Gordon lying there. And everyone else is so miserable! It's like that place sucks the life out of you."

"It's not the place," Virgil reminded him, "but the situation we're in."

"I know. All week I've been dying to see Gordon, but over these last two days I've been dying to get away again." Alan paused. "That sounds awful, doesn't it?"

"No..." Virgil hesitated. "Some people would say that is awful, but not me. I feel exactly the same. I've been counting down the minutes until I thought I could suggest that we leave."

"It would be different if Gordon was conscious, wouldn't it?" Alan asked, desperate for reassurance. "We'd be happy to stay then?"

"Of course we would. We'd be able to interact with him instead of sitting around staring at him." Virgil received clearance from the tower and sent his aeroplane aiming for the skies.

There'd been silence between them for a full ten minutes before Alan spoke again. "I think I'll buy myself a plane."

Despite his concerns, Virgil had to suppress a smile. That one simple sentence had branded Alan as a Tracy. None of them flaunted their wealth and in the main Virgil did his best to live off the wages he received from ACE. The only time that he dipped into the large retainer that his father paid him was for the care and maintenance of his aeroplane, and when he had bought the Red-Arrow. But the fact that one of them was able to say _I think I'll buy myself a plane_ as casually as most people would say _I think I'll buy myself a chocolate bar_ spoke volumes about how much money they each had to play with.

Not that Alan considered any of that as he continued with his train of thought. "Since I'm hopping around all over the country, it's not always going to be convenient for you to pick me up. Most of my trials and races are on Saturdays and you won't want to waste a whole day waiting for me. Sunday is usually a day off before the whole circus moves to the next site on Monday. If I have my own plane then I can leave for the Willis straight after the race and then meet up with the rest of the team at the new track Monday evening or Tuesday morning. And, if I had my own plane, you and I'd have more freedom to come and go as we wanted."

"That sounds like a good idea," Virgil agreed. "Do you want a hand to choose one?"

"Thanks, but no thanks. I should be okay."

Virgil was well aware that his kid brother was likely to choose an aircraft based on something as trivial as how it looked and give no consideration to practicality or fuel efficiency. "Don't be shy about asking Father or Scott for advice. They'd be glad for the excuse to have something else to think about."

"If I run into problems I'll ask them."

That, Virgil decided, was Alan's way of saying that he had no intention of getting anyone's help.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The week dragged. Work dragged. But conversely Virgil found that meal breaks flew past as quickly as Alan in his race car.

Wednesday rolled around and at morning tea Virgil once again checked his answer-phone without any expectations of hearing any momentous news.

He was pleasantly surprised to find an excited message from Scott… Or more correctly a frustrated conversation between Scott and John.

Wherever Scott's attention was, it wasn't on the phone in his hand. _"…mail. Virgil! Answer your phone!"_

John spoke and he sounded almost as clear as their eldest brother, leading Virgil to surmise that he was standing at Scott's shoulder. _"Then he's not going to answer it now."_

"_What a pain. I wanted to tell him the good news personally."_

"_Then leave a message telling him to call you as soon as he's free!"_

"_But I told him I'd ring as soon as I had news! And he'll want to hear this straight away… He must be working at the moment."_

"_What's the time there…? About 9.30?"_

"_About that."_

"_And morning tea's at…?"_

"_0950 hours."_

"_Or ten-to-ten in civilian talk."_

"_Yes."_

"_So tell him to call you back! I'm sure you can last twenty minutes!"_

"_But what's the point of him making me promise to call him the instant as I had news about Gordon if he can't answer the phone!?"_

"_He made you promise, did he?"_

Scott sounded bemused at his brother's reply. _"Yeah, he did. He was really insistent about that…" _

"_I'll bet he was."_

"_What do you know, John?"_

There was a chuckle. _"I know that he's probably wondering why you rang him up to talk to me."_

"_Huh? Oh, yeah."_ Scott suddenly appeared to remember that he'd made a phone call and the excitement returned to his voice. _"Sorry, Virg. John distracted me."_

"_Don't blame me!"_

"_Then shut up and let me finish!"_

"_Finish? You haven't started yet!"_

"_Shush! Virgil! If John'll let me get a word in edgewise we've got some exciting news. Gordon…"_

The answer-phone cut out.

As the interim message played, Virgil toyed with the idea of forgoing listening to his messages and ringing straight back. If he didn't know better he would have thought that his brothers were high on something. Whatever their news was, it must be good.

His musings had taken too long and John's voice, clearer now, came out of the receiver. _"Hi, Virgil."_

"_Gimmee that!"_

"_No!"_

"_John! Give me my phone back!"_

"_Why. You keep on messing about and not telling him anything."_ John's voice grew louder again. _"Virgil, great news…"_

"_That's my phone! Give it to me! I'm going to tell him!"_

_No!"_

"_Boys!"_ This voice was deeper. _"Stop leaping about, I'm trying to talk to Alan!"_

"_Sorry, Dad."_

"_Sorry, Father. Give me my phone, John!"_

"_Make me."_

"_John! Get off the furniture!"_

"_Sorry, Grandma."_

"_And give me that phone."_

"_But, Grandma, it's mine! I'm going to…"_

The answer-phone cut out again.

As pleased as he was to hear his brothers sounding so euphoric, Virgil was growing slightly irritated with their uncharacteristic behaviour. He was almost ready to forget about his messages and dial his father's phone, when a new voice spoke.

It was his grandmother. She was brief and to the point. _"Virgil. Gordon's opened his eyes. Phone your father."_

Virgil was doing just that before her message had finished. "It's Virgil. That's great news! I'll go and tell Uncle Hamish that I'm leaving right away."

Jeff was more subdued than his sons had been. "No, don't do that. Not yet."

Bemused, Virgil frowned into the phone. "Why not?"

"Gordon's still in the coma."

"But Grandma said he had opened his eyes!"

Jeff did not sound happy. "He has. But he's not responding to light or any other stimuli. Mr Millington is still classifying him as a grade three."

Virgil felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under him. "I don't understand. How can Gordon open his eyes and still be in a grade three coma?"

"Mr Millington explained to us that a coma is like a very deep sleep, one where there are no responses to light, or pain, or anything. But some patients are still able to move… It must be similar to someone who walks in their sleep."

"And there are no other reactions? Gordon hasn't moved anything else? He hasn't tried to say something?"

"No." Virgil could hear despondency in his father's voice. "You look into his eyes and there's nothing there. No life, no spark…" There was a sigh. "We were so sure that things were getting better... I'm sorry if we'd got your hopes up."

Virgil didn't comment. "What else did Mr Millington say?"

"That in the short term there's nothing else we can do except wait."

"Oh." The bell rang.

Jeff heard it. "Is your break over?"

"Yes."

"Call us at lunchtime. You never know…"

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "You never know." He turned off his phone aware of a peculiar drained feeling. One minute it had seemed as if their worries were over, the next it was as if they'd come back ten-fold.

Depressed, Virgil returned to work.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

He made the flight to the Willis Institute solo that weekend. Gordon's room was much as he'd left it; a nurse off to the side, Jeff and Scott on the right of the bed, Grandma and John on the left, and, in the centre of all this misery, Gordon.

His brother's eyes were open. They remained open the entire time that Virgil was there except for an occasional, slow, unnerving blink. They stared at nothing. They responded to nothing. Virgil was reminded of the insult _the lights are on but no one's home_. Except that even the lights didn't appear to be on in Gordon's eyes.

Alan arrived late on Saturday evening. The young man tried to be upbeat, telling everyone that his practise sessions had gone well, that he'd thought it would be easy to move closer to Victor Gomez in the overall standings, and reporting on a couple of funny things that had happened during the week. But eventually, even he succumbed to the desolation that seemed to permeate that room.

They sat. They waited.

Virgil rubbed his eyes. They were tired like the rest of him. He'd napped in his chair, but it wasn't a real sleep. It wasn't a dead-to-the-world, forget-all-your-troubles, type sleep. It was a sleep on the edge of wakefulness, ready to respond to the slightest change in Gordon's condition.

He blinked. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he'd seen something move.

No. The figure on the bed lay still.

Confused, he looked back to where the impression of movement had come from.

Nothing.

He was tired. That had to be it. If he was starting to see things then he'd be in no shape for the flight back home later that day.

What was that?!

Another movement? The smallest jerk of a pale thumb? Was he seeing things? Virgil looked around his family to see if anyone else had noticed.

Alan and John had both dozed off. Scott was staring at the ceiling. Jeff was gazing intently into the invalid's face and Grandma was scratching at an invisible stain on her skirt.

Virgil leant closer, focussing all his energies on that single digit…

"He moved his thumb!"

Everyone stared at Virgil who pointed at Gordon's hand. "He did! He moved his thumb! That one!"

"What?" Jeff asked, numbed by weeks of depressing inactivity.

"He moved his thumb," Virgil insisted. "I'm sure I saw him move his thumb. Three times!"

Six pairs of eyes stared at an unresponsive hand.

_Twitch._

"He did!" Grandma exclaimed. "Did you see, Scott?"

"I saw it, Grandma!"

_Twitch._

"Nurse!" The life seemed to come back to Jeff Tracy. "Nurse!"

"It's all right, Mr Tracy," she responded. "I've called Mr Millington."

_Twitch… Twitch…_

"Come on, Gordon," John breathed. "Come on. Come back to us."

_Twitch… Twitch…_

Mr Millington bustled into the room.

"He's moving!" Alan exclaimed, urging the doctor over to the bed. "Gordon's moving his thumb! Look! He's waking up!"

_Twitch… Twitch…_

The doctor bent over the invalid, who, apart from that isolated tic, hadn't moved. Mr Millington shone a light into one eye and then the other. He pinched the skin in various places. He picked up Gordon's hand and applied pressure to the fingernail bed to evoke a pain response.

At last he placed the limp hand back onto the bed and straightened. "I'm afraid there's no change. He's still in a grade three coma."

_Twitch… Twitch…_

"But… But…" John stammered. "He moved. You can see him move!"

Mr Millington looked at him with grey eyes. "Gordon is not responding to any stimuli, John. This radial tic is the merely an uncontrolled nerve impulse."

John looked crushed as he sagged back into his chair and Virgil felt the same. Once again their hopes had been dashed.

_Twitch… Twitch…_

It was hypnotic. As if every family member was falling under a magician's spell, their eyes were glued to that twitching thumb…

_Twitch… Twitch…_

Hour after hour…

_Twitch… Twitch…_

No one moved…

_Twitch… Twitch…_

No one spoke…

_Twitch… Twitch…_

Scott ran his hand over his face. "This is driving me crazy."

As if his words were an invitation to do something, his grandmother reached out, covering Gordon's hand with her own small one and holding down that thumb that seemed to possess a life of its own. "Stop doing that, Gordon honey, and put your energies into getting better," she cooed. Then, while Virgil watched, her face changed from an expression of stoic calm to one of surprise. She looked down at the paired hands and pulled hers away.

Gordon's thumb didn't move.

Everyone gave an almost audible sigh of relief.

_Twitch… _

_Twitch…_

_Twitch… Twitch…_

Grandma covered her grandson's hand again. "It's all right, Honey. We're here. I'm here and your father's here. Alan's here, and Virgil's here, and John's here, and Scott's here. We're all here and we're not going to leave you alone. We'll be with you every step of the way until you're through this. We'll be with you until you are better."

From then on, every minute of the day and night, the family took turns holding Gordon's hand. At first his brothers felt a degree of discomfort at such non-masculine familiarity, and made awkward jokes, but, after a time, it seemed as natural as sitting by his bedside.

The Tracys each held Gordon's hand until their own arm grew tired and they had to swap with someone else. Great care was taken to ensure that the limb wasn't left unattended on the bed for longer than necessary. "Like passing the baton," Alan had joked when he'd taken over from his father, and everyone had laughed; not because they felt like it, but because Gordon would have wanted them to.

But it seemed to be working. Not once did Virgil feel Gordon's thumb move.

After one of his stints on hand duty, he felt the need to get some fresh air and passed the nurses' station on his way out into the late afternoon sun.

"You've got to admire the grandmother…"

Virgil stopped. He wasn't partial to eavesdropping, but he had a feeling that the grandmother in question was his own. He wanted to hear more.

"The way she's managed to stay so strong with all the ups and downs the family's gone through."

"I've known people who were stronger than her fall to pieces under less provocation."

"She's from good farming stock and had a hard life until her son made his money. That sort doesn't generally show their emotions, especially in front of their family."

"How did you find out she was a farmer?"

"She told me. I was having my break from room duty this morning. I came out into the corridor and found her standing there in tears…"

Virgil was startled by the news. For as long as he could remember his grandmother had always been stoic and resilient and a source of strength to every member of the family. To think of her as weak and vulnerable…

"…The poor thing was sobbing like a child, so I took her into the break room to give her a cup of coffee and a chance to pull herself together. It's breaking her heart to see her grandson so sick and the way it's affecting the rest of the family. She's very concerned about her son."

"I'm worried too. I don't know him that well, but in my opinion that's not a man who's coping."

"None of them are. She begged me not to let them know that she's just as bad…"

Virgil escaped outside to think. He felt guilty for not considering how Gordon's illness had affected his grandmother, or anyone else in his family. All his focus had been on his brother. He resolved to at least to attempt to do something about it.

The question was what?

Devoid of ideas he returned to Gordon's room.

Nothing had changed.

Virgil spent the rest of his time at the Willis surreptitiously observing his family and wracking his brains for the solution to his problem. But, when he finally left the Willis Institute that Sunday evening for another week working at ACE, he was no closer to an answer. He needed help and so he slipped a brother a note to call him.

He also had to agree that Alan was right. It was as though the hospital had sucked the life out of everyone.

Especially Gordon…

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"John. I'm glad you called."

"Well, you asked me to, Virgil. What's up? That slipping me a bit of paper when you said goodbye was all very James Bond."

"Sorry about that, but I didn't want anyone else to know I'm worried."

John frowned. "Aren't we all?"

"No, I'm not talking only about being worried about Gordon. I'm talking about being worried about everyone… I'm talking about all of us."

John's response was a quiet "Oh."

"I know it's not the right thing to do, but I listened in on a conversation a couple of the nurses were having."

John was surprised. "You listened in? You mean you eavesdropped?"

"Well, yes…" Virgil admitted, somewhat ashamed of his actions.

"Why? Parker's the one whose nickname's 'Nosey', not you."

"They were talking about Grandma and I was curious about what they were saying…"

Now John's own curiosity had been piqued. "And what were they saying?"

"One of them said that Grandma was crying on her shoulder."

"Grandma!?"

"Yes."

"Our Grandma?"

"Yes, John," Virgil confirmed. "Our Grandma. Apparently Gordon's twitching got too much for her.

So, after I heard those nurses talking I watched everyone else and I realised that we're all falling apart."

"Falling apart?" John frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Well… Apart from Grandma crying on total strangers' shoulders; haven't you noticed how old Father's looking? He seems to have got a lot greyer over the last two weeks. And Scott's losing weight… And I've realised that it's affecting me too. I'm isolating myself from my friends. I've either been at the hospital or on the phone trying to find out how Gordon is."

"Yes," John agreed, looking thoughtful. "I see."

"I've been wracking my brains, trying to think of a solution and I can't come up with anything practical. Not when I'm so far away most of the time."

"Why are you mentioning this to me? Why not Scott?"

"Because you haven't had the life drained out of you yet."

John appeared surprised. "Because I what?"

"You haven't been there 24/7 for the last two weeks, but you're going to be from now on. I want to make sure that you don't start deteriorating like they've done, and I'm hoping that you might come up with a workable solution."

John stared at him. "Me?"

"Yes, you." Virgil stated. "If I can help in any way, just say the word. Even if it means taking unpaid leave from ACE, I want to help."

"You do realise that you're asking me to tackle three forceful personalities, don't you?"

Virgil sighed. "I know. But I don't know who else to turn to."

John shook his head. "Don't let it ever be said that I'll walk away from a challenge." He gave a resigned sigh. "Okay, Virg. I'll have a think about what you've said. But I'm not guaranteeing that I'll be able to do anything…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Monday morning.

Once a month, Hamish Mickelson would hold a staff meeting. It was an opportunity to give ACE's employees a say in the running of the company, which in turn gave them a sense of ownership and encouraged their loyalty to the firm. It was also a chance to encourage good workmanship and to stomp out any unacceptable behaviour before it became an issue.

He had reached the end of what he'd laughingly called 'his sermon'. "Has anyone got any questions?"

A female employee raised her hand. "Have you got any news on Mr Tracy's son? The one who was in the accident..."

Her employer didn't look at the young man sitting quietly at the back of the room. "You mean Gordon? I'm afraid that he's still in a coma. Prognosis at this time is uncertain."

"How is Mr Tracy holding up?" someone else asked.

This time there was a glance at Virgil as Hamish chewed on his lip. "You know how Mr Tracy values his privacy. He hasn't given me any indication that this incident has impacted on his health or wellbeing. However he has insisted that the social club outing proceed as planned. He is sorry that he probably won't be able to attend personally and trusts that Team Tracy will ensure that we have an enjoyable day out."

"Mr Mickelson, will you tell Mr Tracy that he, Gordon, and his family are in our thoughts?" Lisa asked. "We're all hoping for the best."

Hamish Mickelson favoured her with a warm smile. "I will, Lisa. Thank you."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Morning tea

Virgil checked the expected 'no change' text, sent one acknowledging that it had been received, and tucked the phone into his pocket. Then he walked out of the locker room and into the canteen.

Three surprised faces looked at him when he sat down. "Hi," he said.

"Hi… er… Has something happened?" Bruce asked.

"No," Virgil admitted. "I just decided that I should spend some time with my friends."

"Oh..." Bruce looked at Lisa and Butch. "Okay… Ah… We were discussing the social club outing…"

"Yeah," Butch agreed with an eager smile. "I'm lookin' forward to it."

Lisa giggled. "He can't wait to see Alan Tracy in the flesh. He's Butch's hero. Isn't he, Love?" she teased, giving her husband a playful hug. "You'd have a photo of him instead of me in your wallet if you could get your hands on one."

Butch turned pink and hung his head. "No, I wouldn'."

Lisa laughed and gave him a peck on the cheek. "You big softie."

"I'm looking forward to going too," Virgil admitted. "If I can, I always try to catch Alan's races."

Lisa giggled again. "What have we got here? The Alan Tracy fan club? Are you a member, Bruce?"

"Well, since he's the boss's son…" Bruce drawled. He raised a knowing eyebrow towards Virgil. "I'll take any opportunity to get on the right side of the Tracy family. But are you going to be able to make it, Virgil? I mean… I know things have been tough."

"I don't want to miss it if I can help it," Virgil admitted. "I know Alan personally," he explained to the Crumps as Bruce shot him a surprised look.

Butch gazed at his friend open mouthed. "Ya know him? Will ya intraduce me?"

Lisa smiled. "If you do, Virgil, you'll have a friend for life."

"I'll see what I can arrange."

"Is that how you got your job here?" she asked. "Because you know the Tracy family?"

Keenly aware of the irony of the situation, Virgil nodded. "It helped."

"Have you known them for long?"

Virgil couldn't look at Bruce who was doing his best not to burst out laughing. "A few years."

"Virgil's father an' Mista Tracy an' Mista Mickelson was in the Air Force together," Butch reminded his wife.

Her cheeks coloured with a light blush, accenting her beautiful features. "Oh, yes. I forgot. Sorry."

"Virgil…" Bruce cleared his throat. "Ah… I know you were going to fly us there, but, if you don't want to, that's okay. You've got more important things to worry about. We can make other arrangements."

"Don't worry about it," Virgil reassured him. "I'll hire a suitable plane, and I'll take a day off on the Monday after so I can still spend two days at the hospital. And, if something happens which means that I won't be able to fly the team out to the track, then I'll arrange for someone to take my place."

"Are you sure?" Lisa clarified. "We don't want to cause you problems. This sick relative is obviously someone very special to you."

That was the moment when Virgil made the decision that he was going to reveal his relationship with Jeff Tracy to the Crumps. He was tired of having secrets and telling lies. He opened his mouth to speak…

"So, Mr Tancy. Have you decided to come down to the level of your peers?"

Virgil looked up at Max Watts. "Excuse me?"

"We haven't seen you in here in weeks. Obviously we are not worthy enough to be in your presence."

"I've had things I had to deal with."

"He's been worried about a very sick relative," Lisa protested.

"Oh yes…" Max Watts did not sound impressed.

"Virgil hasn't been ignoring us," she added.

"Didya want somethin', Mr Watts?" Butch asked in a poor attempt at civility.

"I have a message for Mr Sanders. He has received a phone call." Watts glared at Bruce, not impressed at having been relegated to the role of messenger boy. "Something about the social club outing."

"Oh! Better get that," Bruce exclaimed, and pushed his chair back until it hit the wall. "'Scuse me, Virgil. I can't get past."

"Sorry," Virgil vacated his chair and found himself face-to-face with Watts.

The supervisor didn't move out of the way.

Sick of the man's arrogant attitude and obvious lack of respect, Virgil squared up to his superior, stared him in the eye, and said nothing. Around the canteen all chatter ceased as his co-workers observed the silent challenge.

"Thanks," with a nervous look between the two men, Bruce squeezed past. "Catch you guys later."

Virgil reclaimed his seat.

The buzzer sounded.

"We are now in ACE's time," Watts announced. "We don't want to be late back to work… do we?" His predatory grin suggested that the idea of putting Virgil on report appealed to him.

Virgil stood again. "No. I've got too much respect for Greg Harrison to do that. Excuse me, _Sir_." He pushed past the older man and returned to his work station.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"John's bought a house."

Virgil stared at Scott's image on his home videophone. "What!?"

"I said: John's bought a house!"

"A house!"

"Yes. A house."

"A house?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am." Virgil reflected that, while Alan's decision to by an aeroplane seemed to be a natural thing to do, John's decision to buy a house seemed, well… Odd…? Out of character…? Downright weird…? "What on Earth did he buy a house for?"

"I thought you might have some idea."

"Me? Why would I have anything to do with a left field play like that?"

Scott frowned. "You honestly don't know anything about this?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. I had no idea that he was thinking of going into property. What happened?"

"Yesterday, John's first full day with the three of us: nothing. We were all sitting around watching and waiting as usual… Then this morning he disappeared."

"He disappeared," Virgil repeated, trying to make sure that he following the bewildering narrative. "John disappeared?"

"Yes. He was gone for hours. When he finally came back, well after lunch, he kind of took control. He started ordering us about."

Virgil blinked. John ordering his elder brother, his grandmother and his father about was nearly as strange as his buying a house. "He did what?"

"I've been going for an hour's run every morning," Scott admitted. "It's a chance to clear my head and prepare myself for the day. Then John goes and tells me that I'm to take Father for a walk along the same route to get him out of the place."

"And Father said…"

"Basically 'over his dead body'. Then John told him that if he didn't use his legs more he'd be in a wheelchair before Gordon had a chance to get out of the bed."

Virgil couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I didn't realise that John had a death wish."

Scott chuckled. "Then he called in the big guns. He got Grandma to back him up."

"She did, of course."

"Of course. Told Father that John was right and that it was high time that he got some fresh air. And John reminded us that he and Grandma weren't going anywhere, so Gordon wouldn't be left alone."

"So you went for the walk?"

"Yeah. For half-an-hour. Father was _not_ about to let one of us dictate what he should or should not do."

Virgil laughed. "Did he enjoy the walk?"

"Yes, I think he did. Hopefully, now that he realises that Gordon's not going to do anything rash while he's not there, he'll go for them more frequently."

"Good," Virgil approved. "But what's this got to do with the house?"

"I'm coming to that. When we got back to the hospital, half-an-hour later," Scott grinned, "the receptionist called me over. She said someone wanted to meet me in the foyer."

"Who?"

Scott shrugged. "I didn't have a clue at that point. Father didn't hang around and went straight back up to Gordon's room. Then Grandma came down."

"Grandma?"

"One of the nurses had told her that _she_ was wanted in reception. By now I'm totally confused…"

"I'll bet you were."

"Especially when the receptionist gave each of us an envelope. Mine had a map in it, Grandma's had a key."

"The key to this house?"

"Yes, although I didn't know it at the time. By now we were both curious about what was going on, which I think is what John was counting on. He knew that it would take something pretty drastic to get us away from Gordon. We followed the map out of the Institute's grounds to this house directly over the road from the front gate. Guessing that we were meant to see whoever was in the house, we walked up to the front door. There was a note pinned to it. _Use the key_ it said."

Virgil was listening to this tale, spellbound. "And did you?"

"Yep. I opened the door and we walked into this open plan lounge/kitchen area, completely devoid of furniture except for a single chair with some papers on it."

Intrigued, Virgil leant forward. "What were the papers?"

"The top one was the deed to the house, in the name of John Tracy. The next one was a plan of the house. The lounge has three bedrooms opening up off it. One was labelled with my name, one had John's, and the third had Grandma's. Underneath this plan were a lot of bedroom furniture catalogues and cards from various stores."

Virgil grinned. "Do you think he's trying to tell you something?"

"I think so. I walked into 'my' room and there was this videophone and catalogues for gym equipment."

"And the videophone's operational? How'd he get a phone line connected so quickly?"

"Knowing John he probably wired up the phone himself and linked it to the Tracy network somehow. He'd left a lot of brochures for kitchen equipment and a videophone in Grandma's room too."

"He knows you guys too well. What's in his room?"

"Bed, drawers, telescope."

"Just the bare necessities then."

Scott laughed. "Grandma and I were just getting our heads around this when there was a knock on the door. I opened it and there was this woman standing there saying she was from the Puriri Beauty Clinic. I'm looking at her blankly as she's telling me that she had a four-o'clock appointment with Mrs Tracy, which Grandma didn't know anything about. Then the lady showed us her booking sheet." Here Scott paused. "The booking had been made by John," Scott gave Virgil a sideways look, "and Virgil Tracy."

Virgil started. "He used my name too?"

"Yeah," Scott drawled. "Now try and tell me you know nothing about this."

"I don't," Virgil protested. "Well, none of the details. I knew we had to do something to help you guys out, and I had mentioned it to John. But I didn't know about his plans."

"You guys are just…" Scott growled, and then stopped. "Someone's at the door. I'll be back in a moment."

He was gone ten minutes. When he'd returned he was shaking his head in bemusement. "Furniture movers," he stated. "Bringing in a dining table big enough to seat seven and a large screen TV."

"He's trying to make a home away from home," Virgil pointed out. "He must have spent a small fortune. I suppose when you're stuck on a space station there aren't too many opportunities to spend your money."

"Yeah," Scott agreed. "Except he was only up there for a month… I'd better go." He gave his brother a pointed look. "I'll catch up with _you_ later."

The two brothers had no sooner finished their telephone conversation when Virgil's videophone rang. Not recognising the phone number, he answered it with a "Hello."

"Virgil! Thank you!"

Virgil grinned. "You're welcome, Grandma, but it's John you should really be thanking." He examined the image on the video screen. "You're looking great."

"And I feel wonderful. It was so nice to be pampered after all this time. Robyn did my hair and my nails and massaged my hands and my feet and gave me a neck rub. It was pure heaven."

"And you've come out of it looking like an angel."

"Oh, Virgil." Grandma gave a girlish giggle. "I feel alive again. We had such a lovely conversation, and Robyn's given me her card so I can book another session whenever I need one."

"That's good, Grandma. You deserve some pampering."

"I won't hold you up any longer. I just had to ring and say thank you before I start picking out what I need to furnish this kitchen. Bye, Honey."

"Bye, Grandma."

Virgil hung up the phone and chuckled. At least that was one person who appreciated John's efforts.

He turned on his computer and typed out a text message. "You and I have some talking to do. Phone me when you're free"

The phone rang two minutes later. John looked smug. "Did you want something?"

"A house! You bought a house?"

"Only a little one."

"It has three bedrooms!"

"Well, you said we had to do something to put the life back into them," John protested. "You also said you'd help out. I'll send you the bill tomorrow."

Virgil was expecting as much. "Okay."

"Of course, we might be able to talk Scott into splitting it three ways."

"Scott? How about Alan?"

"He's just bought a plane," John reminded him. "I think we can let him off this time. I was going to put your name on the deed too, but they needed your signature and I wanted to get all the paperwork done so we could take possession straight away. If you want we can rectify that next time you're in town."

"Whatever made you think of buying a house?" Virgil asked.

"Well, I sat there on Monday and I watched everyone and I thought about what you'd said. Then I realised that we Tracys aren't designed for small enclosed places… Apart from those of us who work in factories…"

"Next time you're in town I'll show you around ACE," Virgil informed him. "It's one of the largest plants in the country."

"And here I was thinking that you were the exception that proves my rule. Oh, well." John gave a melodramatic sigh. "As I was saying: we're used to being able to roam with no limits. We're used to being able to gaze out over Kansas wheat fields, wide blue skies, the entire planet… The universe!" John threw his arms out in a grand gesture. "All we've got at the Institute is Gordon's room, the attached unit, and the canteen. I decided we're not made to be crammed into such a small area, and so I've expanded our horizons."

"By buying a house."

"It means that everyone has their own space where they can escape for a while when they need some time out."

"I knew I could count on you to come up with a solution."

"Words of praise are all very well, but I'll wait to see the colour of your money." John winked.

Virgil remembered his phone call of a few minutes ago. "You've made Grandma happy."

The smug look returned. "I know. I got a big hug and a promise that the first meal she cooks in that kitchen is going to be my favourite."

"What was Father's reaction to being told to get out of the hospital?"

"Annoyed. He's quite an intimidating guy when you're facing off toe-to-toe," John recollected. "Even with the couple of inches I've got on him. But I held my ground."

"With Grandma's help."

"With Grandma's help," John admitted. "I told him that Grandma and I wouldn't leave until they got back. Then I reminded him that both he and Scott had their mobiles and their watches and promised that we would contact them should Gordon so much as raise an eyebrow. I knew that Scott would make sure that he got a decent walk and I was also counting on Father to assert his authority and insist that they were back within the half hour." He rubbed his hands together like a pantomime villain. "They all walked straight into my devious plan."

Virgil was enjoying seeing his brother's glee. "I would have loved to have seen Scott's face when he saw the deed."

"Me too."

"Where is the place?"

"It's right opposite the front gates. You may have seen it; it had a 'For Sale' notice on the gate."

"Nope. But then I wasn't house hunting."

"At first I thought it was going to be a bit awkward with only the three bedrooms, but I know we'll never get Father out of the Willis until Gordon's on the road to recovery, so he can stay in one of the rooms in the attached unit. You or Alan can have the unit's other bedroom and if you're both visiting at the same time I've ordered one of those chairs-that-convert-into-a-bed things for the lounge. You can toss a coin to see who uses that."

"What are you planning to do with the house when we no longer need it?"

John shrugged. "Sell it? Set up a trust so that others in our position can use it? I'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Virgil gave a wry shake of his head. "You never fail to surprise me, John. I just start to think that I know what makes you tick and then you pull something new out of the hat."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Meet you at home," Alan had said. "I'll fly you to the Willis in my new plane."

Virgil mounted the steps that he'd climbed so many times as a boy and a man and, out of habit, let himself through the back door. In time gone past, entering the house this way had meant being greeted by Grandma and a host of cooking smells… and the opportunity to pilfer something freshly baked to eat.

Now the room seemed desolate. His grandmother would be horrified to see the dust collecting on her pristine kitchen surfaces. Depressed by the neglected feel of this most warm and familiar of rooms, Virgil passed through into the hallway. "Alan! Are you here?"

There was a crash from somewhere in the region of the lounge.

"Alan?"

"Ah… I'll be right with you, Virg."

Virgil turned towards the source of the voice. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." Another crash and a stifled curse.

Virgil walked down the hallway. "It doesn't sound like nothing…"

Alan barrelled through the lounge door, pulled up short in front of his brother, and, in an act of studied nonchalance, shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hi, Virgil."

Any curiosity Virgil had towards what had been going on in the family lounge was overtaken by his impatience to get away. "Are you ready?"

Alan smiled. "Yes… No!" He dashed off down the hall in the direction of his bedroom.

Virgil sighed and considered checking out the damage to the lounge. His plans were thwarted when Alan ran out of his room; a small, locked box held in an iron grip. "Are you ready? Let's go." He dashed out the back door.

Virgil gave another sigh, this one an outward expression of his exasperation, and followed his kid brother.

---F-A-B---

"Well? What do you think?" Alan indicated his new pride and joy.

Virgil cast a critical pilot's eye over the aircraft. "It's a bit small, isn't it?"

"Less resistance. She's built for speed, so I'll spend less time in the air and more time with Gordon."

Virgil could understand Alan's logic, but wasn't sure that his brother's methodology was entirely sound. "I wish you'd got Scott to help you choose."

"Why?" Alan's lower lip jutted out in a pout. "And have him tell me what I need when he's really got no idea?"

"He is one of the best pilots in the business," Virgil reminded him. "He'd ask for your advice if he wanted to buy a car."

Alan called his bluff. "No he wouldn't." And Virgil had to, privately, admit that his brother was right.

The cabin was tiny, and Virgil had to wait until his brother had secured the mysterious box in a compartment under the pilot's seat, before he could squeeze into the cockpit. "Does this thing come with a tin opener to let us out?" he asked.

Alan stared at him in amazement. "Did you just make a joke?"

Virgil, already irritated by the hold up, his youngest brother's secretive behaviour, the way he was shoehorned into the aeroplane's seat, and the prospect of another weekend brooding over an unresponsive brother, was not looking forward to the upcoming flight. He glared at Alan. "Let's get moving, shall we?"

They'd been in the air for some time when Alan next spoke. "How long have we been doing this?"

Virgil shifted in the uncomfortable seat. "Feels like days," he grumbled.

"No, not the flight. How long since the accident?"

"Let's see," Virgil counted off on his fingers. "One week at Marineville and, let's see... Two at the Willis?"

Alan nodded. "I think so."

"So that makes three weeks."

"They all run in together, don't they?" Alan mused.

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "And it looks like they'll be running together for some time yet."

---I-R---

--- F-A-B---

The flight was relatively quick, but not comfortable, and as soon as they'd touched down on the tarmac, Virgil released his safety harness and grasped a handle jutting out from the roof to pull himself out of the seat.

"Hey!" Alan protested. "We haven't finished taxiing yet!"

"Taxiing," Virgil responded. "What a good idea. I think I'll catch a taxi home again." He sat back down and tried to rub the cramped feeling out of his legs.

Alan treated him to another pout. "We got here quicker than we would have in your crate."

"True," Virgil conceded. "But at least with my 'crate' you're guaranteed to be able to walk when you get to your destination. I was seriously thinking about calling ahead and asking the Willis Institute to have an ambulance waiting for us."

"This is a performance craft."

"…For aerobatic dwarves!" Before Alan had a chance to retort Virgil hauled himself out of his seat. "Come on. I want to get going."

"To see your new house?" Alan snickered. He reached under the seat and retrieved his box.

"What have you got in there?" Virgil asked.

"Ah," suddenly Alan lost his cockiness. "Candy… To suck on… While we're in the hospital."

"Then why the locked box?"

"So Scott can't get at them."

There was a ring of truth to this and Virgil gave up on that line of questioning. Trying to coax his legs back into life, he staggered out of the plane; stopping just outside the door to flex his legs and wait for an aggravating little brother who seemed determined to make them late for the hospital. "Come on!"

"I won't be a minute."

Virgil stuck his head back inside the aeroplane. "What's the hold up?"

"Nothing." Alan climbed out of the pilot's seat, scrambled for the door and jumped outside, wincing when he landed on the hard concrete. He jammed his hands into his pockets.

Virgil noticed that something was missing. "Where's your candy box?"

"I… ah… I left it in the plane. I decided that it wouldn't be fair on the others if I was eating them and no one else."

"I thought you'd share them about."

"Nah… They'll get sticky with the hospital's central heating and then everyone will leave fingerprints all over everything." Alan withdrew his left hand from its pocket then pulled his right hand out with more care, zipping the pocket shut before he locked the aeroplane's door. "Are you ready?"

Virgil decided that there was something suspicious about the 'candy box', but he was too impatient to worry about it now. "Let's go!"

---F-A-B---

When they got to the hospital, they were greeted with smiles, a marked improvement on last week. "Good flight in the new plane?" Scott asked.

"No," Virgil growled.

"Yes!" Alan said perkily and took Gordon's hand from his grandmother. "It's Alan, Gordon."

"No?" Scott looked puzzled.

"He's purchased a flying pretzel maker."

"Huh? What type of craft is it?"

"A motorised mosquito," Virgil griped.

"It is not!" Alan complained. "It's a SW-137 Culiseta!"

John snorted a laugh. "Good guess, Virgil."

Virgil, bemused by the comment, could only manage a "Huh?"

"Culiseta is a genus of mosquito," John explained.

Virgil barked out a laugh as his kid brother started sulking.

"A SW-137 Culiseta?" Scott raised his eyebrows. "The civilian version of the MP-137 Culex. Fast, manoeuvrable, and, according to most critics, let down by its cockpit which, by all accounts, is the size of a coconut."

"A small coconut," Virgil agreed. "I've seen bigger ones on the island… My turn, Alan." He took command of the unresponsive hand, shocked by how bony it felt after only three weeks of inactivity. "Hi, Gordon. It's Virgil. You won't believe this plane that your little brother's bought. It's tiny."

There was no response from Gordon.

"I thought you would have chosen a MS-736 Lutzia, or maybe an AP-384 Sabethes," Scott said, showing off his encyclopaedic knowledge of things aeronautical. "They're supposed to be just as good, but more comfortable."

"Or a TA-5798 Cynomya," Jeff suggested. "Built by Tracy Aviation."

"Even better," Scott approved.

John made a tutting sound. "Are you telling us that you haven't even supported the family business, Alan?" he teased.

"The Cynomya's a brilliant plane," Scott continued, enjoying his recitation. "It's nearly as fast as the Culiseta, but has enough room to carry four people, and their luggage, in comfort."

"Alan's plane isn't big enough to carry _one_ person in comfort," Virgil told Gordon. But Gordon's open, unseeing eyes stared out at nothing.

Alan shoved his hands into his pockets and retired to a corner to sulk.

"Stand up straight, young man," Grandma scolded him. "The wall's not there for you to lean on. And take your hands out of your pockets!"

His face showing that he was feeling picked on, Alan complied, but when Virgil relinquished Gordon's hand to Jeff, he noticed that his youngest brother's right hand had retreated back inside his jacket. Feeling sorry for him Virgil suggested a trip over to see John's latest acquisition.

"In a minute," Alan replied. "Dad? Can I slip in there for a moment?"

Jeff gave him a quizzical look "Slip in?"

"Hold Gordon's hand."

"If you want." Jeff stood, but didn't relinquish his grip until Alan was ready to take his place.

Alan picked up his brother's right hand in his left. "Hey, Gordon," he said softly, focussing on the red-head's pale face. "It's Alan… But you know that, don't you… I have something of yours..." He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and held it before dull eyes before releasing something. It fell until it was suspended by the brightly coloured ribbon looped around his fingers. Dangling from the ribbon was a gold disc.

Gordon's Olympic medal. The one that had resided in the cabinet in the family lounge.

It hung there spinning slowly; catching the light as it turned. Alan moved his hand and it swayed to and fro.

Gordon's eyes followed the movement.

Everyone caught their breath, cramming together close to the head of the bed.

"You know what this is, don't you, Gordon?" Alan stated, his voice still soft and placid. "This is your medal."

Gordon's lips moved. "Mmm-dl."

It was a croaky whisper and the word was nearly unintelligible, but to Virgil no music could match the beauty of that sound.

There was a hushed "nurse," from Jeff Tracy.

Alan smiled, but showed no other outward signs of excitement, continuing to concentrate on his bedridden brother. "Do you remember when you won your medal?"

"Mmmdl."

"Remember all the hard work you did? Do you remember swimming lap after lap, getting faster and faster?"

The door to the room opened and Mr Millington stepped inside with a questioning look to the nurse, who held a finger to her lips and indicated the bed.

"Do you remember us doing everything we could to help you win this medal?" Alan was saying. "And we're going to help you again. We want to help. All of us. Dad will help and Grandma will help. So will Scott, John, Virgil and me. We are going to help you get better."

Previously lifeless brown eyes moved: shifting from one face to another. Pausing to gaze on each member of his family before moving on to the next. "Ou' mmdl."

"No," Alan corrected gently. "Not ours. Yours. You did the hard work. You were the one who competed in the Olympics. You were the one who swam the fastest you'd ever swum. You were the one who stood on the dais and received this medal. Remember? This medal belongs to you."

Gordon's hand, the one with the thumb that had twitched with a life that its owner hadn't seemed to possess, flinched and Alan released his grip on it. The hand moved towards the dangling medal until the backs of the fingers rested on its surface. "M' mdl."

"Yes, Gordon. Your medal. Do you want to hold it?"

The eyes shifted to Alan briefly before settling back on the gleaming disc. There was the tiniest of nods and Alan pressed the Olympic gold into Gordon's hand and curled unresisting fingers around it, before tying them together with the ribbon. "There you are. That's your medal. Keep it safe." He placed Gordon's hand, now clutching his medal, against his brother's chest.

The corner of Gordon's mouth turned up a millimetre and he closed his eyes. His breathing became soft and regular.

Virgil was surprised to realise that he had tears in his eyes. Looking around his family he discovered that he wasn't the only one.

"Excuse me, Alan," Mr Millington moved the young man out of the way. He bent over Gordon and prised open an eyelid, shining a torch into the eye that no longer seemed cold and dead. Gordon made a sound of complaint and moved as if he were trying to escape the light. The doctor chuckled. "All right, Gordon. I'll let you sleep for the moment." He straightened and signalled that everyone should leave the room. "Nurse," he whispered. "Keep an eye on Gordon for us, would you?"

"Yes, Sir."

There was total silence until everyone was in the corridor and the door had been closed behind them.

Then the Tracys erupted. Whoops of excitement, shouts of joy, cheers of jubilation, tears of happiness flooded out of the family. There were smiles, laughter, hugs, and back slaps. Everyone was talking and no one was listening. Jeff Tracy, overcome by the elation of the moment, gave Alan a bear hug that lifted the younger man off his feet as he planted a big kiss on his son's cheek. Alan, unused to such overt expressions of affection from his father, looked around to check that none of the nurses had seen and tried to wipe the residue off. He was foiled when his grandmother grabbed hold of his face and planted a similarly elated kiss on the same spot.

When things had subsided to a sea of delighted smiles, Mr Millington spoke. "I don't need to tell you that Gordon is no longer in a grade three coma. Judging by the way that he responded to you, Alan, I would say that if he isn't now grade 15, then he is very close to being so... Of course I shall have to make tests to confirm this."

"When do you think he'll wake up again?" Jeff asked, breathless after the exertions of his celebrations.

"Give him time, Mr Tracy. Remember this is only another rung on a very long ladder. Now that Gordon is showing signs of consciousness I will be able to ascertain what, if any, brain damage he has sustained and then decide on treatment. In the meantime I'll ask that you don't get too far ahead of yourselves." He paused. "Was that a real Olympic medal?" He gave a bashful grin. "Do you think Gordon would mind if I examined it later? I've always wanted to see one..."

_To be continued…_


	14. A Quiet Trip Home

**14: A Quiet Trip Home**

Virgil hadn't wanted to make the Sunday evening journey home, and no one had tried to stop him from staying. Instead he'd waited until late Monday when, at long last, he'd said a grudging goodbye to every member of his family. He would have been much happier staying at the Willis Institute with them all.

Especially with a fully conscious Gordon.

Not that everything was right with the young man. That Gordon's mind was as quick and alive as it had always been there was no doubt. That his body had a long way to go before it was fully recovered was also obvious. Even without tests it was clear that the hydrofoil accident had inflicted damage to the parts of Gordon's brain that controlled his motor skills, leaving his left side paralysed, and the right only slightly more mobile. Even more disconcerting, the auburn-haired Tracy, when he'd felt well enough to try to communicate with his family, could only make sounds that vaguely resembled the words he was trying to form.

Nevertheless, when Virgil returned to the Willis the following Friday evening, he was in a happier frame of mind than he had been in weeks. "Hi, Everyone," he beamed when he entered the room. He received a variety of greetings in reply.

"How was the flight?" Scott asked.

"Good. I flew here in my own plane." Virgil claimed the seat beside the bed. "How's it going, Gordon?"

"Shlala," Gordon replied. "Haa aa ya?"

Virgil didn't understand a word his brother had said. Fortunately his father came to the rescue. "We all know it's going to take a long time for you to get better, Gordon, but you've only been conscious for less than a week. We can't expect to be able to rush these things." He turned back to Virgil. "How are you, Son?"

"I'm great. I've been itching to get back here since I left. As soon as I got home on Monday I rang the Mickelson's to tell them all about Gordon's recovery. They weren't very happy."

"Weren't happy?" Grandma exclaimed. "Why ever not?"

"I was so excited that I'd forgotten what the time was. They didn't appreciate getting woken up at midnight." Virgil grinned down at the invalid. "Are you trying to get me into trouble with my boss?"

"Na ma faal ya gan de de di."

Hoping that this was the right response, Virgil said, "They didn't mind once they'd woken up enough to realise who was ringing and why. In fact they were so thrilled that Aunty Edna said they were going to have a celebratory cup of hot chocolate in your honour, Gordon."

"Ya. Sa sum fa mi."

Virgil glanced at his father hoping for a translation. The paralysis had almost completely immobilised the left side of Gordon's face, meaning that only half of his mouth appeared to be operational. It made understanding what he was saying next to impossible.

But Jeff didn't seem to be finding it all that difficult. "I'll tell Edna that one of the first things you'll want to have when you're eating again is one of her hot chocolates."

"And some of her biscuits?" Grandma asked.

"Ya," Gordon replied, his eyes shining. "An sum a ya affa di."

She beamed back at him. "Of course I'll make you some of my apple pie."

"Dan ya."

"You're welcome."

Feeling lost, Virgil tried to rejoin the conversation. "Where's John?"

"Ad ya hoa."

Those three words may as well have been Martian for all the sense they made to Virgil, but Scott smiled. "Like Gordon said, he's over at your house. The place needs a spruce up and he's making a start on some of the preparatory work. I was going to head over when you got here… I don't think you've seen the place yet, have you?"

"No," Virgil confirmed. "John's got my money, but I haven't seen the goods."

Scott stood. "Come on. I'll take you over there and you can have a look around. Is that okay with you, Grandma?"

"Of course it is, Honey. I leave my room tidy."

"Anla ya," Gordon said.

"I know it's a mess, but I haven't worked out where I'm going to put everything yet," Scott rejoined. He leant on Gordon's bed so that he could look down on his brother. "I've had more important things to worry about. Now, do you mind if I borrow Virgil for a bit?"

Gordon looked at Virgil and the right side of his mouth twisted up in a strange smile. "Na taa lan."

"No. Not too long," Scott agreed. "I'll send him back as soon as he's had a look around. Come on, Virg."

The two men left the room and started the hike through the hospital corridors. "I didn't understand a single word he said," Virgil admitted. "How come you guys didn't seem to have any trouble?"

Scott put on his sunglasses as they stepped out into the autumnal sun. "Don't worry, we still struggle, but after a time you kind of get an ear for what the various sounds mean. Between that and a bit of intelligent guesswork you get a fair idea of what he's trying to say."

"It all sounded the same to me."

"Believe me, we had a frustrating few days at the beginning of the week," Scott said as he strode down the driveway. "But it was worse for Gordon. He was trying to tell us stuff and we couldn't understand him." He stopped and pointed through the front gate, across the road to a plain wooden house. "There's your place."

"Only mine? John was going to try to talk you into going thirds."

"Really? He didn't mention that to me." Scott's eyes were hidden behind his glasses, leaving Virgil guessing at the truth of the statement. "Come on," he said, stepping off the footpath and on to the road. "We're going to need some of your artwork and colour sense to brighten the place up."

"Great. You don't only want my money; you want my talents as well."

"Yep," Scott chuckled. "While we've got you here, we're going to bleed you dry."

They reached the house. Above the door was a neat sign: _The Satellite_. John had chosen the name because he hoped the house would be a small cocoon of life that orbited a stationary body (Gordon). Alan had heard about the acquisition and, showing his usual disregard for his brothers' belongings, had instantly dubbed it: _The Witless Substitute_.

"Ah, ha," John greeted them as they entered the building. "About time you got here, Scott. I was getting ready to send a posse out to hog tie you and drag you over here." He wiped a grimy hand on his shirt and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "I see you brought an extra pair of hands."

"Nope. Virg is only here to check out his investment. He's under strict orders that he's got to head straight back."

John grinned. "Is Gordon ordering you about already?"

"Apparently," Virgil replied. "At least that's what everyone was telling me he was saying."

"Don't worry," John reassured him. "He knows that he's not very clear at the moment, the thing is to keep patient and listen."

"You know me, I'm a patient guy."

"That's why we've got no concerns over you," Scott admitted. "Alan on the other hand…"

"When's he due back here?" John asked.

"Monday," Virgil informed him. "He's got some charity event on this weekend. I think he said they're supporting a trust set up to help road accident victims who have suffered neurological injuries. Under the circumstances he couldn't really refuse to take part." He looked around him taking in the lounge, the new furnishings, and the wall paper that had been stripped off the walls. "Wouldn't it have been easier to start this _before_ you bought the furniture?"

"Of course it would have been easier," John admitted. "But at the time we moved in we were all more interested in staying over at the hospital."

Virgil gave a wry grin at the irony of the statement. "And you're not now that Gordon's awake?"

"Okay, I'll admit that came out wrong." John replied with a matching grin of his own. "While Gordon was unconscious we needed to all be there so that we could talk between ourselves and he could hear our voices. Otherwise it was a bit hard holding down a one-sided conversation. Now that he's conscious, so long as at least two of us stay with him to keep him company, the rest of us are free to get out and do things. Scott and I decided that while you and Alan were here, we'd have a go at cleaning this place up."

"You could always employ someone to do it," Virgil suggested.

"We could, but this is giving us an activity we can get our teeth into that doesn't involve the hospital," John noted. "And since it's our place, we can leave it whenever we want to and come back to it."

"Yes," Scott said. "And we figured that if we improved the décor, we'll increase the value of our investment."

Virgil's ears pricked up. "Our investment?"

"He's coughed up," John said. "And he's promised me that his payment won't bounce."

"It won't," Scott confirmed. "I haven't bought any planes lately…" A wistful look crossed his face. "Though I would like to have a go at flying Alan's Culiseta."

"You'd have a broken back before you'd left the runway," Virgil informed him. "Okay. Who's going to give me the guided tour?"

"Me." John handed Scott the scraper. "It's time you did some work."

After he'd been shown around, had offered his advice on what colours would look the best, and had taken some measurements for picture sizes, Virgil headed back to the hospital alone. When he arrived, he discovered that Gordon had some extra company.

Jeff made the introductions. "This is Rose. She's Gordon's speech therapist. You'll meet his physiotherapist, Catherine, later. Rose, this is one of my two missing sons, Virgil."

"Hello, Virgil." Rose smiled.

"Hello, Rose. Do you mind if I sit in?"

"I don't if Gordon doesn't?

"Ya ca sda."

"Good. Why don't you sit on the other side of the bed, Virgil?" Rose focussed her attention on her patient. "Let's start with a challenge, Gordon. Let's see how well you can say Virgil's name."

Gordon fixed his eyes on his brother. He moved those muscles of his mouth that responded and made a sound. "Oooodl."

Virgil tried not to frown. That hadn't sounded much like 'Virgil' to him.

"Try again," Rose prompted.

This time the vowel-sound at the beginning was much shorter. "Oodl."

Rose shook her head. "I know that the 'V' sound is hard to make, but you can do it." She sounded out the consonant a few times. "Say the letter 'V'."

Gordon's 'V' sounded more like a 'B' to Virgil's ears.

"Now try to say Virgil."

"Oodl."

Virgil turned to his father who was sitting unobtrusively at the foot of the bed. "Why didn't you call me something simple like Gus?"

Jeff chuckled. "I can't imagine you as a 'Gus', Virgil."

"No," Grandma agreed. "That's not you at all."

"'Us."

Virgil looked back down at the invalid. "I don't mean that you can start now," he growled. "Come on, Gordon. You can do it. Vir-gil."

"Oo-dl."

Rose sighed. "Your name _is_ a hard word to say, Virgil… I'm sorry, but we'll work on it."

"Hold on, Rose," Virgil had spotted something that only a close family member would have picked up on. "Don't give up just yet. He's teasing us… or more correctly he's teasing me. Aren't you, Gordon?"

"Mi?"

"Yes, you."

Rose looked confused. "What?"

"He's playing with us," Virgil repeated. "You can always tell when he gets that twinkle in his eye."

"Twinkle?" Rose looked into her patient's eyes.

Virgil stood and, taking care not to put his full weight down on the bed, placed both arms on either side of his brother so that he was leaning over him and would have been pinning him down if Gordon had the mobility to escape. "Listen to me, Gordon Tracy," he said dangerously. "If you don't stop calling me 'poodle' and at least make an attempt to say my name properly, then…" He lowered his voice to an even more threatening level. "I'll tell Rose what the kids used to call you at elementary school and she can make you say that."

There was laughter from the foot of the bed.

The gleam in Gordon's eyes had disappeared to be replaced by a panicked look. "Nao!"

"Yes," Virgil reinforced. "Now say my name."

The panicked look disappeared. So did the impish twinkle. Both were replaced by a frown of intense concentration. "Brrr..." Gordon stopped, thought, and tried again. "Brr…" He hit his bed with his good hand in frustration. "Brr…chill."

Virgil sat back with a satisfied smile. "Close enough."

"Nao."

"It is after three weeks in a coma, Gordon," Rose reminded him. "It was a tough one to start the day with. Let's move on to something easier."

The session lasted an hour and by the end of it, although Gordon didn't appear to be making much progress, Virgil was developing an ear for the meaning of each individual sound. He was beginning to feel more confident that he'd be able to hold down some semblance of a conversation with his younger brother.

Then the physiotherapist arrived. Catherine was introduced to Virgil and explained what her session would entail. "Our goals," she stated, "are to continue to prevent muscle atrophy and loss of mobility in his joints and, now that he's conscious, to increase his motor control in his right arm so he is able to do things for himself. Right, Gordon?"

"Ri."

"Now. Let's see how much movement you've got today." Catherine held her hand ten centimetres above Gordon's. "Can you touch my hand?" Gordon, face twisted in dogged determination, raised his arm until it was touching the physio's. "Well done! Now, push against my hand… That's it," she smiled. "Five... Six... Seven... Keep going. You're doing great!"

Gordon, his body shaking and his face contorted with the effort, complied before letting his arm drop back onto the bed.

"Wonderful. That was longer than yesterday. Maybe tomorrow we'll get up to double figures?" Catherine praised as she made some notes on a clipboard.

"No' ez-yr."

"It'll get easier," Jeff reminded his son. "At the moment it's a matter of taking one day at a time. Right, Catherine?"

"Exactly," Catherine agreed and put her clipboard aside. She took the weight of Gordon's arm. "Now. Let's see those biceps!"

Virgil couldn't help thinking that Gordon's formerly impressive biceps would do little to attract anyone as his brother bent his arm.

Catherine, however, seemed more than happy with what she saw. "That's an improvement on yesterday too. Now let's see how much more flexibility you've got in your wrist than you had. Bend it forward… Good… Now back… Excellent! Now, can you rotate it to the right…? Now the left…"

Gordon, his veins standing out on his forehead with the effort, did his best, but still Virgil had to resist the impulse to get some oil to lubricate those seized joints.

"Excellent!" Catherine, seemingly unable to be anything other than positive, congratulated her patient. "Now make a fist - let's show this body of yours that we're not going to let it dictate what you can or cannot do."

Virgil watched as Gordon, his face straining with the effort, attempted to draw his four fingers in. His thumb twitched and moved inwards, nearly touching the palm, as the whole hand formed a claw before collapsing back onto the sheet. "Nao."

"We'll have to work on that. Are you using that squeeze ball I left you?"

Gordon grinned, the impish gleam back in his eye again. "Go' summin' bedder. Werezid, Dad?"

"Here." Jeff held up a small, red, spherical object. "This arrived in the post yesterday afternoon. A gift from my youngest son."

"Alan?" Catherine queried. "What is it?"

His lopsided grin even more delighted, Gordon accepted the ball from his father. He squeezed it and a sound, not dissimilar to a whoopee cushion, filled the room.

Virgil laughed and Jeff tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a grin.

Grandma sighed. "It's a man thing, Catherine," she explained. "They never grow up."

"Tell me about it." Catherine commented as she made another note. Then she looked up at the newcomer. "This is where you and your brothers can help, Virgil. Gordon needs to keep exercising that grip until he can hold things unaided. If you can encourage him to keep practising, it'll help his recovery."

"I don't think Gordon will need much encouragement," Virgil said. "Right, Gordon?"

"Ri."

"But if I can help, I'll be glad to."

"Good… Now, Gordon, let's work those muscles of yours."

Grandma stood. "Before you begin, if you'll excuse me, I have some things I need to do back at the house. Do you mind if I leave you for a little while, Gordon?"

Gordon tried to smile at his grandmother. "K."

Virgil glanced at his father who, with a concerned frown, was watching his mother leave the room. Grandma's tone of voice had suggested that her reason for leaving was more to do with what was about to happen than any concerns about the house.

"See you later, Mrs Tracy," Catherine called after the departing lady. Then she began her work in earnest and Virgil started to get an idea of what had upset his grandmother. For as long as he could remember, Gordon had always seemed to have a swimmer's physique, with the muscular build that went with swimming lap after lap of the pool. But now Gordon's limbs were sticks; bones with tightly stretched skin barely concealing each knobbly joint. As he realised how much his brother had deteriorated, Virgil felt sick… And determined to do all he could to reverse the process. As he sat and watched Catherine put Gordon through exercise after exercise, a plan slowly formed.

At last the physiotherapist had finished. "There, that's that," she said, as she packed away her equipment. "I'll be back tomorrow. Goodbye, Gordon."

"Bi."

"Goodbye, Mr Tracy."

"Thank you, Catherine. See you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Virgil."

"Wait, Catherine," Virgil leapt out of his chair. "I have something to ask you." He walked with her out the door.

When he arrived back a few minutes late with his plan crystallised and approved, he realised that Grandma had returned and was watching him with interest.

"Wahn's th' da'?" Gordon asked.

Virgil stared at him, wondering if his newfound confidence in his ability to understand his brother had been misplaced. Gordon hadn't just asked him _when's the date_, had he? "Huh?"

"You took off after Catherine so quickly that we thought you might have been going to ask her out," Jeff explained.

"What?!" Virgil stared at him. "No. I thought of something that I could do to help Gordon get some exercise and I wanted to run it past her. She thinks it's a good idea."

Gordon gave him a cock-eyed look that showed he wasn't sure about the sound of this. "Wa?"

"You can wait and see."

"Tll mi"

"You don't need to worry. It's only something that involves a few lengths of steel and a bit of welding. Nothing major," Virgil teased. He pretended to take a few measurements. "Do you mind if I head off to do a bit of shopping?"

Gordon replied with a wary and weary, "Nao…"

"Thanks. I'll try not to be gone too long." Virgil looked at his watch. "I'll aim to be back in time for lunch, okay?"

"K." Gordon's eyelids were drooping.

"The morning tires him out so he usually sleeps over lunch," Jeff whispered. "It gives us an opportunity to slip away and grab something to eat."

"Yes," Grandma agreed. "It doesn't seem right that we should eat around him, while he's only being fed by a drip."

"Alin nid ere," a sleepy voice said.

"I don't think your brother will appreciate being called a drip, Gordon," Grandma scolded.

But she may as well have saved her breath as Gordon had fallen asleep.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil had made a few enquiries at the front desk as to the whereabouts of various shops and returned in plenty of time for lunch and with an armload of packages. These he dumped at The Satellite before surveying the stripped down walls. "You guys have been busy."

"What have you got there?" John asked, pulling on a clean, dust-free shirt.

"Something to help Gordon's right hand get some exercise," Virgil replied. "Hey! Get out of that bag!"

Not the slightest bit ashamed at being reprimanded, Scott looked at him. "Sketch pads? How's that going to help? He wasn't much of a drawer before the accident. He's going to be terrible now."

"Catherine seems to think it might help and it won't hurt," Virgil explained. "And it means I'm able to at least try to do something useful while I'm here."

"I think just being here and being a change of face probably helps," John said, running his fingers through his hair. "Are you ready, Scott?"

"You bet. After all that work this morning I'm starving!"

"You'd be hungry if you'd been sitting about all day," John retorted.

"You'd know all about sitting about all day."

"Excuse me. I'd done a full morning's work before you arrived!"

"You'd done one strip of paper. I'm the one who did that wall single handed."

"Leaving me to…"

"Hey!" Virgil shouted, getting his bickering brothers' attention. "You two can stay and continue your discussion if you want, but I'm ready for something to eat. I'll tell everyone else to start without you, shall I?" He started walking towards the exit.

As he'd expected he was beaten to the door.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Do you feel up to exercising that arm, Gordon?" Virgil asked. He'd reduced the many parcels he'd brought home to one and this he placed on the table at the end of Gordon's bed.

"Ya. Wad?"

"You've got us all curious, Virgil," Jeff said.

"Can I be nosey?" Grandma asked, poking her nose into the bag.

"You're as bad as your oldest grandson!" Virgil scolded. "Now… How does this thing work?" he examined the hospital tray, managing to get the tray top to tip up so it was nearly on the vertical. He then slid the whole unit along the floor until he was able to slip it under Gordon's bed, within the patient's reach.

"Wad dad fo?"

"You are going to do some drawing."

"Dworwin?"

"Drawing," Virgil confirmed. "Can I have the bag please, Grandma… Thanks." He pulled out a large sketch pad. "You are going to draw on this and I'm going to help you." Flipping back the cover of the pad he revealed a light pencil drawing of an underwater scene. This he placed on the tray so that Gordon could see it.

His brother's eyes lit up. "Fiss. Gwopa."

"Peacock grouper to be exact," Virgil confirmed. "I bought a couple of books so I could copy the pictures. You can look at them later."

"But if you've already drawn the picture, Virgil," Jeff asked, standing at his son's shoulder so he could see what was going on, "what is Gordon going to do?"

"I've only done the outline. It's up to Gordon to fill it in."

"But he can't reach over his body," Grandma pointed out.

"I'll hold his arm in position," Virgil said. He looked down at the figure on the bed. "You'll have to hold the crayon and do the actual drawing. Okay?"

Gordon nodded. "K."

Virgil reached into the bag again and pulled out a box. From this he removed a fat brown crayon. "Here," he said, holding it next to Gordon's hand. "Can you hold this?"

Gordon's thumb and fingers attempted to close around the crayon, but the digits couldn't constrict enough to allow him to grab hold. With an exasperated sign he let his hand flop back onto the bed. "Nao goo."

"We're not beaten yet," Virgil stated. "I thought there was a possibility that we might have problems." He pulled a bit of rag from out of his pocket and started wrapping it around the crayon. "I stole this from Scott and John," he grinned as he tied the rag in place with a rubber band. "There. Try that."

This time Gordon's fingers were able to hold the crayon. He smiled, happy that he'd achieved this one small victory.

"Right." Virgil's smile matched his brother's. "Do you mind if I guide your arm to start with?"

"Nao."

Virgil pulled up a chair beside the bed and then decided that it was too low. "Any problems with me sitting on the side of your bed?"

"Nao."

Moving carefully, Virgil sat on the edge of the bed so he was leaning on his left arm and his body was twisted so that he could reach across easily. He picked up Gordon's arm. "Ready?"

Gordon looked up at him with that familiar twinkle. "Cozi?"

"I'm comfortable enough," Virgil rejoined. "What do you want to draw first?"

"Dal."

They started on the tail. To begin with Virgil supported Gordon's arm, moving it horizontally as was necessary and letting his brother take care of the up and down motion. After a short time he could feel Gordon's hand start to tremble with the effort. His own right arm was starting to feel the stress of holding the same position with little movement and his left arm was starting to fall asleep.

He was considering how he could change position, but still keep the activity going, when half-way through completing the fish's tail, the crayon fell from Gordon's grasp. "Nnuff."

"Okay," Virgil agreed. He climbed off the bed, taking care to place Gordon's arm gently on the bedclothes. Then he rubbed his own arm. "We're going to have to think of a better way of supporting your hand. My one's gone to sleep."

"A leas u can uz yor odder won."

Virgil stopped flexing his arm. Gordon sounded spiteful and peeved. "I'm only trying to help. I'll see if I can weld up a frame this week. If you can think of anything else that'll help, let me know."

"U cn leev mi lon."

Virgil looked to his father for clarification. To him it sounded as if Gordon had just told him to leave him alone.

Jeff appeared to be of the same opinion. "Why don't you go and see how your brothers are getting on decorating your house, Virgil?"

"Ah… Okay…" Virgil said reluctantly. He packed away the sketch pad and crayons. "Catch you later, Gordon." There was no response and with a heavy heart he walked out the door of his brother's room.

He was part way down the hall when he heard someone call his name. "Virgil."

Virgil turned back. "Grandma?"

His grandmother hurried over to him and wrapped him up in a protective embrace. "It's all right, Darling. He gets like that sometimes. It's not you he's mad with: it's his own body." She took a step back so she could look her grandson in the face. "He gets tired and frustrated and he takes it out on us. And then he feels guilty. Trust me, he'll have a sleep now and the next time you see him he'll apologise." She lightly brushed Virgil's hair off his forehead. "Are you okay, Honey?"

Virgil managed a smile. "I'm okay."

"Good. Don't take it to heart. I think that was a brilliant idea of yours."

"Thanks."

"And I'm sure he'll want to have another go when he's feeling better."

Virgil nodded. "I'd better get over to The Satellite. John and Scott are probably at each other's throats by now and they'll need a referee… Or at least someone to wipe their blood up off the floor."

She chuckled.

---F-A-B---

Over at the house things were quieter than Virgil had predicted. The four walls of the lounge had been stripped and his two brothers were poring over a newspaper. Scott, his face grave, looked up when his brother entered. "Hi, Virg."

"Hi. What are you reading?"

"Earthquake in Japan," Scott explained. "Hundreds of people are trapped. We were just discussing how International Rescue could have helped. We couldn't have saved everyone, but we could have done something…" He made a helpless gesture. "If we were ready."

Suddenly Virgil's problems seemed insignificant in the global scheme of things. "We will be able to help one day soon."

"Yeah. Soon being the operative word…" John slammed the paper shut. "How'd your plan go, Virgil?"

"Fine. He managed to fill in most of the grouper's tail."

Scott eyed his younger brother up. "What are you doing here?"

Virgil attempted an unconcerned shrug. "I've been kicked out."

"He got tired, huh?" Scott guessed. "Don't worry. He's kicked us all out at some point or other. The trick is to give him some time to have a nap and get everything back into perspective."

"Well, I'm giving him some time, which is why I'm here. What do you want me to do?"

"What every artist does." Scott gave a wicked grin and handed Virgil a wide brush and a tin of paint. "You can start painting that wall over there."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The three brothers called it a day at four o'clock. They got cleaned up and then headed back over to the Willis Institute.

Scott flopped into a seat. "That's us done for the day. I'll be happy if I never see another scrap of wallpaper."

"Yeah," John agreed, rotating his shoulders. "I've discovered a whole lot of muscles I never knew I had." He grinned. "Maybe we should get Catherine to wheel you over there for a workout, Gordon?"

Whether by accident or design, the only chair left available for Virgil was by Gordon's bed on his brother's good side. Wondering what reception he was going to get, he sat down.

Gordon looked over at him. "Sss." He stopped and prepared himself for another attempt. "Ssszorwi," he said.

Virgil patted him on the arm. "That's okay."

With a speed that surprised him, Gordon grabbed his arm and held it as tightly as he could with his crippled fingers. "Dan q, Brrdchill."

Virgil placed his hand over Gordon's. "That's okay. If you want to have another go, just tell me."

"K. Layda."

Virgil smiled. "Yes. We'll try again later."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Two weeks later and Virgil found himself mounting the steps of the Tracy homestead again. But this time was different. As he pushed open the back door he was greeted with a host of aromatic smells. "Mmn. Grandma. I feel like I'm in a dream."

Looking very much as if she were in her natural environment, Grandma Tracy turned from the kitchen sink. Flour down the front of her apron, the piles of dirty plates and dishes, as well as the odour of fresh baking, all spoke of her industrious efforts. "Hello, Honey. What was that?"

"Last time I walked in here the place seemed deserted. I was almost expecting the same this time." Virgil opened one of the containers that stood invitingly on the bench. "Chocolate chip cookies!"

"You can have one and only one," she warned. "But not from that tin! They're for Joel's Garage."

Virgil bit into the still warm biscuit and gave a sigh of contentment. "I hate to say it, but I think it's just as well that you're not joining International Rescue. With you around cooking for us full time, we'd be lucky if we could fit into our uniforms." Grandma laughed and Virgil surveyed the kitchen. "You look like you're not going to be ready to go any time soon."

"No," Grandma agreed. "I had hoped I'd be finished before you arrived, but this kitchen was such a mess. It took me ages to clean up before I could begin baking." She turned to face Virgil as he started removing some of the dishes from the dishwasher. "I'm sorry; I know you're in a hurry to get to the Willis. If my plane hadn't broken down I would suggest that you go without me."

"That's okay," Virgil responded. "I know Gordon appreciates you doing this." He eyed up the cakes that were being removed from the oven. "What better way to say thank you than to give some of your baking."

He made a grab for a cake, but his grandmother, well practised in avoiding the thieving fingers of one husband, one son and five grandsons, deftly moved the tray out of reach. She rapped him over the knuckles with a wooden spoon for his effort. "If you're a good boy and help me give these out then I'll save you some for later."

Virgil grinned. "You know I'd help without you resorting to bribery." He inhaled deeply, enjoying the aromas that meant that he was home. "It helps though."

---F-A-B---

Most of the town remembered the cheeky-faced young red-head who'd made them proud, and it seemed that everyone had at least sent a get well card. Virgil and Grandma visited Gordon's old schools, leaving tins of baking for the staffs' tea breaks. They went to the shops Gordon had frequented, the clubs he'd belonged to, the companies where he'd had after-school jobs, and the local pool, leaving Gordon's thanks for the messages of support that had been sent out from each institution.

They'd finished their deliveries, having just come out of an old family friend's house, with hopes that Gordon would make a speedy recovery still ringing in their ears, when they nearly bumped into a group of young men lounging by the gate. "Hey! Steady on, Bud. You 'n the old lady had better… Oh, hiya, Virgie. Mrs T."

"Marrin," Virgil acknowledged.

"How are you boys?" Grandma asked in an insincere attempt to remain polite. None of the baking she'd done had been for Gordon's 'friends'.

"Great!" Marrin responded. "The band's got a gig at the '_Waistland_'. We're playin' from eight till ten every night this week. Come and see us. You like music, don'tcha, Virgie? You'd be in for a treat." He gave Virgil a playful punch on the shoulder, which made Virgil's skin crawl.

Virgil frowned. "The name's Virgil, Marrin."

"Whatever."

Trying to maintain some kind of civility, Virgil asked, "What's the _Waistland_?"

"Where've you been, Virgie… ah, Virgil? The _Waistland_'s a top club. Must be the only place in town not owned by your father." Marrin gave Virgil another skin crawling punch, guffawed, and his cronies obligingly joined in.

Virgil folded his arms and glared at Marrin who seemed unperturbed. "Where I've been is working… when I haven't been visiting Gordon."

"We ain't seen him for a while. Is he still with that WASP crowd?"

Virgil fought not to let his anger surface. "No, he's in hospital. He was in a high speed crash and was in a coma for four weeks."

"Oh, yeah." Marrin scratched his greasy head of hair. "I think I remember hearing somethin' about that. He's got brain damage, hasn't he?" He looked at his friends for confirmation and some of them gave dumb nods.

It seemed as if he was the only member of this group who was capable of speech and Virgil couldn't help thinking that it was this gang of idiots who had the brain damage. "Gordon does have some problems. But we're hopeful he's going to improve."

"We're leaving to go to the hospital when we've finished here," Grandma said. "Perhaps you'd like to come with us to visit Gordon? I'm sure he'd like to see some of his 'friends'."

The sarcasm in her voice went straight over Marrin's head. "No can do, Mrs T," he raised his voice, "Like I said we've got a gig tonight. That means that the 'Off the Rails' are performing… Tonight… You know…? Music?"

Grandma's lips were thin angry lines. "I am not deaf, Marrin."

"Ain'tcha? I thought you hadn't heard me say that I was busy this week."

"I'll be coming home again next week. You didn't say you were working then, so you could always fly back to the Willis Institute with me," Grandma offered.

"Willis Institute? Is that the funny farm Gords is at?"

"It is the top neurological establishment in the country, young man. NOT a 'funny farm'."

Marrin fixed Mrs Tracy with an ingratiating smile. "Steady on, Mrs T. It's just a sayin'."

"Well," she huffed, as annoyed with herself for letting him get under her skin as she was with Marrin, "it's not in good taste."

"Whatever."

Virgil could tell that it was against her better judgement, but Grandma was still willing to put her injured grandson before her own sensibilities. "The offer still stands. I can fly you out to the Willis next week."

Marrin gave her a sideways look. "You fly?"

"Yes."

"A plane??"

"Yes, Moron… ah, Marrin."

Marrin stared Mrs Tracy up and down. "Us fly? With you?" The unspoken addendum to the sentence was, "_But you're old!_"

"Yes. My plane is being fixed at the moment, which is why I'm relying on Virgil for transport, but I'm confident I can take you…" she gritted her teeth, "in perfect safety."

"Uhh." Marrin's few working brain cells correctly deduced that Mrs Tracy wouldn't appreciate anyone impinging on her piloting abilities. "I don't think so, Mrs T."

Grandma glared at him. "Why not?"

"Well… You know… What if he's a bit psycho?"

Virgil nearly said something then. With an effort he held his tongue, not trusting himself to speak. He balled his hands into fists and counted to ten to try to cool down.

But his grandma was like a wildcat when it came to protecting her grandsons. "Gordon is _not_ 'a bit psycho'. He is the same loving, caring, intelligent boy that he always was. His only problem is that he is suffering from a slight bout of paralysis and can't talk properly."

"But if he can't talk properly, why would we visit him?"

"To talk to him! To let him interact with someone different! To let him know that his 'friends' care about him!"

"But what if he… you know… dribbles or somethin'." Marrin screwed up his face. "I can't handle that body stuff. It's disgusting."

Grandma Tracy drew herself up to her full height. "My grandson does not dribble."

Virgil stared at his grandmother. This was an outright lie. Gordon's facial paralysis meant that he did indeed drool. This was a source of embarrassment and frustration for the young man since he wasn't always aware that he was doing it, and when he was, he was unable to wipe it away. Virgil didn't care. He took the view that this was further evidence that his brother was alive. He was also aware that he'd probably come across worse things when International Rescue was operational.

In the meantime Grandma seemed happy to ignore the fact that she'd just told a falsehood. "Well, Marrin? What other excuses are you going to come up with?"

"Look, Mrs T. Me and the band are just too busy. Gords will understand."

She fixed Marrin with a steely glare. "I don't think he will."

"Whatever. Anyway, we gotta be goin'." Marrin and his pals started to saunter away. "Say hi to Gords for us," he mumbled over his shoulder.

"Whatever," Virgil muttered.

Grandma huffed. "Well!"

Virgil turned to face her. "Who are you and what have you done with my grandmother?"

Grandma glared at him. "What!?"

"If I heard you correctly," Virgil said, "you said that Gordon doesn't dribble."

"Oh." Grandma glanced at him and then looked away. "I may have done." She straightened her skirt and picked a microscopic speck of dust off the material.

Virgil pretended to stare at her in amazement. "But that was a lie. My grandma doesn't tell lies."

"No… Well… Maybe … Oh, all right!" she exploded. "I'll admit that I did tell a lie… Just a little one!" She held up two fingers to show how small. "It was the wrong thing to do, but that boy made me so mad! Gordon thought he was his friend and he just doesn't care!"

"Calm down, Grandma. He's an idiot. He's not worth bursting a blood vessel over."

"But he's got no respect for others! No respect for me. No respect for you. No respect for your father. No respect for Gordon! To talk about him in that way…! Psycho indeed…! And to call me 'Mrs T'… The cheek of it! Now, I don't mind your friend's calling me Mrs T, Virgil. I understand that you're trying to keep your identity secret and they're nice people and I told them they could. But for that… that…" Words failed her. "That _moron_ to call me 'Mrs T'… It's unforgivable!"

"Calm down, Grandma." Virgil repeated and gave her a hug. "That jerk's only one guy out of the whole town. Look at it this way; he may not realise it, but he's already been punished."

Grandma looked at him, face creased in confusion. "He has?"

"Yes. He's missed out on getting some of your baking. If he knew that he'd be kicking himself. And, as far as I'm concerned, I call that a fair and just punishment."

"Thank you, Honey." Grandma sighed. "I'm glad it was you with me. If it'd been Scott, well… I dread to think what he would have done. And Alan would have been worse."

"Don't think I wasn't tempted to say something, but I thought you were handling the situation so well that I decided that I wouldn't butt in."

"You're a liar too, Virgil Tracy. I handled that situation very badly. I should never have let him get to me."

"Forget it," Virgil advised. "I think Gordon's got brains enough to realise that that bunch of dead-heads aren't worth wasting time on."

"But he needs more social interaction," she insisted. "Having your family about 24/7 is all very well and good, but it's not the same as being with your friends, and the WASP boys don't get leave often enough."

They'd been walking along the road towards their home as they'd held this discussion and neither of them had been taking in their surroundings. They were therefore surprised when they heard their names called out. "Mrs Tracy! Virgil! Wait!"

They stopped and turned. A young couple waved at them from the other side of the road, and then, dodging traffic, ran across to greet them. "Mrs Tracy!" The young woman exclaimed. "How are you?" She threw her arms about the older woman.

Grandma returned the hug. "I'm fine, thank you, Diane."

"Virgil," the young man greeted him. "How's it going?"

"Fine, thanks, Rick." Virgil shook his hand and then accepted a hug from Diane. "You're both looking as troublesome as you ever were."

Diane and Rick Bailey had been Gordon's childhood friends and the three of them had been inseparable. They'd gone to school together. They'd played together. They'd got into trouble together… That was until Gordon had won his medal. After that he'd fallen in with Marrin's crowd and although he'd never been rude or ignored the siblings, he'd never encouraged their friendship either.

Diane laughed. "It was always your brother who got us into trouble," she giggled. "How _is_ Gordon? We've been so worried about him."

"He's only been out of the coma two weeks," Grandma told her. "He's as cheeky as ever but he's got a long recovery ahead of him."

"But he will recover?"

"We hope so."

"And how's Mr Tracy?"

"He's coping. He hasn't left Gordon's side since the accident."

"I didn't think he would. Didn't I say that, Rick?"

"You did," Rick agreed.

"And how's the rest of the family? How are your brothers, Virgil?"

"They're fine," Virgil smiled. He'd always liked these two, even if sometimes he'd been on the receiving end of their practical jokes.

"We were going to send Gordon a card," Diane continued, "but we're no good at writing…"

"Get it out of your bag, Diane."

"What? Oh, yes!" Diane reached into her overly large handbag and rummaged about. "Like I was saying, we're terrible at writing, but we wanted to do something special for Gordon, so we came up with… Oh, where is it!" She dug deeper.

Rick winked at Virgil. "Women's handbags," he grinned.

"If I'd left it for you to look after, you would have lost it," she grumbled. "We didn't want to write a card, so we thought we'd come up with something more… Ah!" She emerged from the handbag. "…Personal!" In her hand was a disc. "So we made a video! Well Paul did. He's a video editor so he got his company to make it properly for us, with all the effects, and fades, and credits, and everything. That's why we haven't sent it yet. He's such a perfectionist that he wouldn't burn it until he thought it was just right. We were going to post it, but when we heard that you were in town we thought it would be much better if you were to deliver it. You know what the postal service is like." She pressed the disc into Mrs Tracy's hands. "Will you give it to Gordon from us please?"

"I would be delighted to." Mrs Tracy looked at the disc as if she'd been awarded the winning prize in a lottery.

"Tell him we were hoping to visit him," Diane said. "But the hospital's so far away…"

Grandma seized the opportunity. "We could fly you there. We're leaving soon."

"Oh…" Diane's face fell. "I can't."

Grandma retained her poise, although Virgil could almost see 'here's another one' in her eyes. "That's all right, Dear. I'm sure Gordon will understand."

"I've got to work tonight," Diane explained. "I'm on shift duty."

"And I've got to work too," Rick added. "I took some time off when I heard you were in town, but I've got to head straight back."

"When are you free? I could come and pick you up if you would like" Grandma asked, not expecting a positive response. "That's if you don't mind an old woman piloting the plane."

Diane laughed. "I'd love to meet an old woman who's still spunky enough to be a pilot. But until we do we'll fly with you, Mrs Tracy. Right, Rick?"

"Right, Diane."

Grandma glowed at the compliment.

"When are you in town next?" Diane asked. "I'll try and arrange my shifts around it."

"I'm flexible," Grandma explained.

"We know," Rick teased. "We remember that limbo competition at Gordon's birthday party."

Virgil was astonished to see his grandmother blush. "When are you both free?" he asked.

"I'm off shift next Wednesday and Thursday," Diane replied. "What about you, Rick? You'll be working won't you?"

"I can make up time over the weekend so I can make sure that I'm free on either of those days," Rick responded. "What day would suit you, Mrs Tracy? Wednesday or Thursday? Or if it's easier, we could spend the night there and that would give us more time with Gordon."

"You might not want to spend two days with him," Grandma warned. "He's not talking very clearly at the moment."

Diane gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "That's all right. You know I talk too much anyway."

"That's true," Rick agreed.

Diane gave him a playful push. "You don't talk enough."

"Growing up with you I never got the opportunity. Besides," Rick favoured Mrs Tracy with a disarming grin, "if I'm not saying anything it'll give Gordon a chance to practise his talking on me."

"He, ah," Grandma hesitated. "He also… because of his paralysis… Gordon… Has a tendency to dribble a little bit."

Diane laughed. "Are you trying to put us off? I'm a nurse, Mrs Tracy. That's nothing."

"Yeah," Rick agreed. "We've seen Gordon do worse that that. Right, Diane?"

Diane rolled her eyes. "I'll say. So is it a date for Wednesday?"

Grandma nodded. "I'll give you a call Tuesday night to finalise arrangements."

"Great," Diane beamed. "You'd better take Rick's number; he at least gets to work civil hours."

Rick Bailey gave Grandma his business card. "I'd better be getting back. Gotta make sure that I'm up-to-date for next Wednesday. Bye, Mrs Tracy. See ya, Virgil."

"Bye, Rick," Virgil said. "Great to see you again."

Diane looked at her watch. "I've got to go too. See you Wednesday, Mrs Tracy."

"Goodbye, Diane. I'll call you on Tuesday."

When the siblings had gone, Grandma sighed. "I hate to say it, Virgil, but your brother doesn't deserve friends like them."

"I know what you mean, Grandma. But he's got them and they're going to stick with him; and that's what he needs right now."

"Yes." She smiled. "I'm glad."

"Me too."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was late in the day when Virgil and Grandma finally made it to the Willis Institute. "Sorry we're late," Grandma apologised. "It's my fault, Gordon. I had to clean the kitchen, before I could start baking. Then Virgil had to help me deliver all the gifts."

"'Elb ya ea dim do."

"I did not eat them, Gordon," Virgil protested.

Jeff raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Oh, yes…?"

"Well," Virgil felt his cheeks grow hot. "Maybe two… or three…"

"Ow fur."

"Or five," Grandma added, her cheeks dimpling.

Virgil hurriedly changed the subject. "Where are Scott and John?"

"That's what we were wondering," Jeff said. "John's been missing for much of the last two days. Scott says he's been hanging out in his room and has gone to drag him out of there. They might be some time yet. How're things at home?"

"We saw Marrin and his gang," Virgil said. "They've actually managed to score a gig this week at the "Waistland"."

"That place is a bit of a dive," Jeff grunted. "They'll be lucky if they receive their pay cheque."

"Ow r dey?"

Virgil had anticipated the question and had prepared his reply. "Just the same as they ever were."

"We've got something special to show you," Grandma said, retrieving Diane and Rick's video from her bag. "Would you like to see it now?"

Curious, Gordon's eyes were fixed on the disc. "Yi, peas."

Grandma slotted the disc into the machine. "We ran into a couple of people who insisted that we deliver this to you in person. Right, Virgil?" she hinted.

"Right," Virgil agreed. "But there might be some things on here not intended for general consumption."

"Knowing them, you are probably right," Grandma granted. "Do you want to wear headphones?"

"K."

When the headphones were comfortably installed on Gordon's head, Grandma pressed play and Diane and Rick Bailey appeared on the video screen that was suspended above Gordon's bed. His face lit up in joy when he saw his two oldest friends.

The rest of his family retired to the attached unit to allow him to enjoy his video card in peace. "That's cheered him up," Jeff stated. "What else happened?" He raised an eyebrow. "That was an evasive answer you gave, Virgil. Just what did Marrin and his cronies have to say?"

Virgil opened his mouth to speak, but an angry Grandma got in first. "They hadn't even remembered that Gordon had been injured!" she huffed. "I asked them if they'd like to visit Gordon; I even offered to fly them here and back, but they had 'more important' things to concern them. They couldn't care less about him!"

"You're surprised?" Jeff asked.

"She was getting so wild with them that I nearly had to pull her off Moron," Virgil grinned. "If I'm ever in another fight with the Skulz I want Grandma in my corner."

"I was so annoyed that I was ready to storm out of town then and there," Grandma admitted. "To heck with the lot of them! But then Rick and Diane came running over. They want to visit Gordon and I've agreed to go and pick them up on Wednesday and take them home again on Thursday. But we're keeping it secret. We want it to be a surprise."

"Good," Jeff approved. "He needs a change of scenery and if anyone can perk him up it's those two."

It wasn't until after Virgil and Grandma had detailed everything else that had happened at home that Alan, Scott and John made an appearance.

"Hello, Alan," Jeff greeted the young man. "Have you been spending time with your brothers?"

"No," Alan responded. "I just happened to bump into them… and that!" he pointed to a large parcel under John's arm, "in the lobby on my way up here."

Virgil eyed the parcel up. "What is it, John?"

The blonde smirked. "Something so our younger brother can communicate with the wider world."

"I assume you're not talking about me," Alan sniffed.

"No, we're not," Scott responded. "John's had me driving around town all afternoon; checking out its range."

"Checking out what's range?" Virgil asked.

"If it works," John grinned, "one of Tracy Industries newest developments and the latest addition to my portfolio. After all I've got to pay off my share of the house somehow… Why are you all in here and not with Gordon?"

"He's watching a video from Rick and Diane," Grandma explained. "We thought he'd appreciate a little privacy."

"A video, huh?" Scott said. "I thought it was odd that he hadn't heard from them. I might have guessed that they'd come up with something different."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense." Grandma indicated John's parcel. "What _have_ you got in there?"

John started unwrapping the mysterious object. "What's that one part of Gordon that works perfectly… well, reasonably well when he's not tired?"

"His brain," Virgil guessed.

"True, but not what I'm thinking of."

"His funny bone?" Jeff suggested.

John laughed. "Also true, but wrong. Keep guessing."

"His thumb," Grandma stated.

"Jackpot! Give a prize to the little lady in the corner," John grinned. "And for what method of communication do many people use only their thumbs?"

"SMS," Virgil said. "Text messaging from cell phones."

"And second prize goes to the man with grease under his fingernails and Grandma's baking under his belt."

Alan pulled at the pile of packaging. "So you've got a cell phone in there?"

"Not a standard cell phone," John corrected. "I've designed one that won't create any radiation issues and operates at a frequency that won't cause interference with hospital equipment. It's only got a range of a few hundred metres, but we've set up a booster over at the house. It plugs into the video screen and I've tried to arrange the buttons so they're within his range of movement. With any luck he'll be able to communicate with anyone, any time."

"The video must have finished by now," Jeff said. "Let's go try it out."

The video had finished, and Gordon had tried to remove the headphones. He'd managed to shift them so they had uncovered his right ear, but were still sitting crookedly on his head as if he could hear through his nose. "Finizd."

"Is it clean? Can anyone watch?" Jeff asked as he relieved his son of the cumbersome headgear.

"Ya."

"How'd you like to chat with them now?" John asked.

Gordon's face lit up. "Ya?"

Grandma looked at her watch. "Diane's probably on duty." She pulled a business card out of her wallet. "There, that's Rick's number."

"Hang onto it for a moment, will you, Grandma?" John asked as he finished unpacking the 'phone'. He plugged one end of a cable into the screen on which Gordon had been watching the video, and the other into a black box. The box had two sets of buttons and John slid it over Gordon's fingers so that it was resting on the bed, but Gordon's thumb had full access to one keypad, while his fingers could reach the four other buttons. "There you go. It works like a standard SMS service, but you'll read what you type and any replies on the screen. Your thumb operates the keypad and you press those other buttons with your fingers to send, receive, reply, and chat, so you'll be getting a full workout at the same time as you're holding down a conversation…"

"C'n I uze id do cheng DB ch'nnl?"

Surprised, John looked at his brother. "Change TV channels? I hadn't thought of that." He shrugged. "With a bit of tweaking I don't see why not… But in the meantime we'll concentrate on getting you 'talking' to Rick. We'll start by programming his number into the speed dial. Press 'save'… Now Rick's number…" He read out the number on the card. "Now push 'save' and 10 and 'save' again… Good. Now, when you want to send him a message, all you'll need to do is type 10 and push 'send' and then you can type your message. Once you've finished that, press 'send' and it's gone. Easy?"

Gordon nodded, pressed 1 – 0 on the keypad and then 'send'. Then he typed: _Hi, R. It's Gordon. Thanks 4 the vid._ He pushed 'send'.

"That seemed to work," Jeff commented.

"You can programme our numbers in later," John suggested. "I thought you'd want to keep one to six free for us; that's why I made Rick's speed dial ten."

There was a beep from the black box. "Incoming," Scott joked.

Gordon looked at John. "Pwes 'seef'?"

"Yes. Press 'receive' and the message will come up on screen. To reply, just press 'reply'."

_G! That you? How are ya?_

_Okay. Gettin tired. Talk later._

_Look forward 2 it. D sends best._

Gordon let his hand relax on the bed and smiled up at John. "Dan q."

John smiled in return. "You can also use it to talk to people here. Press 'chat' to initiate the conversation and then 'chat' again when you want a new line.

Gordon pressed 'chat'. _Thank you, John._ He typed and then pressed 'chat'.

_Thank you, everyone. _'chat'

_I'm a lucky guy. _'chat'.

_To be continued…_


	15. A Quiet Day Out

**15: A Quiet Day Out**

Virgil 'Tancy' was in the process of enjoying one of his favourite tasks at ACE, flirting with the office ladies: officially known as handing in the paperwork.

"Oh, you're wonderful, Virgil…" one of them began.

"Have you only just discovered that?" he teased.

Her cheeks reddened, but she continued as if he hadn't interrupted. "If only you could teach the other guys the importance of filling in these forms correctly and handing them in to us on time…" She gave a meaningful pause. "Especially your supervisor."

"They drummed into us the importance of keeping stock levels correct when I was at Denver," Virgil admitted. "But Greg's an engineer through and through. Great with his hands, but without the temperament or inclination to do paperwork."

"It doesn't make our job any easier," she grumbled. "Especially when he complains because we haven't ordered enough stock to cover the job he's doing. Usually the reason why we're out of stock is because he hasn't told us that he's used extra material to make up a jig or something, and so we haven't corrected the stock in the computer!"

Virgil nodded sympathetically. You could always tell when Greg Harrison had been forced to do some paperwork, because then he would become irritable and could been seen hunched over a desk in the office pulling at his hair. Virgil now understood why Jeff Tracy had not installed Greg in the Production Manager's role and felt guilty that it was because of him that his supervisor had been forced to take on more administrative tasks.

"So this is what you do all day: chat up the ladies," a familiar voice said.

Virgil turned from the counter and smiled at his boss's youngest son. "Alan? What are you doing here?"

"Showing off," Alan Tracy grinned. "Come and see this new car I've got! She's beautiful."

"Can you wait ten minutes? Then it'll be time for afternoon tea and I'll be free."

Alan frowned and looked at his watch. "But I thought it was ten-to-three now."

Virgil inspected his own timepiece. "Nope. Twenty-to. Your watch is fast."

Alan tapped his watch's face. "That's the problem with John. He's great with communications, but lousy with timekeeping."

"Either that," Virgil didn't hear the door behind him open and someone enter the room, "or he knows that you like to do everything quicker than everyone else."

"I wasn't aware that afternoon tea had started already, Mr Tancy."

Virgil looked over his shoulder. "I was just heading back, Mr Watts. I've finished explaining to Alan that it's not time for a break yet."

"Sorry. It's my fault that Virgil was held up," Alan declared. "I thought it was ten to, but he tells me my watch is fast."

Max Watts smiled his predatory smile. "You had better be careful in future, 'Alan'. You wouldn't want your friend to lose his job because he was slacking off with you, would you?"

It was too good an opportunity for Virgil to resist. "Have you two met, Mr Watts?" he asked. "This is Alan Tracy… Jeff Tracy's son."

The effect on those about them was immediate. The ladies in the office started an excited whispering amongst themselves, while Max Watts blanched before offering Alan an ingratiating grin. "Pleased to meet you, young Mr Tracy."

"Nice to meet you, Mr Watts," Alan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I've heard a lot about you from my father… and from Virgil."

"Oh." Watts glanced at the employee in question before he looked at his watch. "I see it's nearly time for afternoon tea, Mr Tancy. In fact it's so close that it won't matter if you don't return to work and you and your friend continue your conversation." He made an awkward bow in Alan's direction and retreated back into the factory.

"Crawler," Alan said.

"He's also an excellent engineer," Virgil informed him, "but thanks for sticking up for me. I'll meet you outside when the bell's gone. Do you mind if I bring a couple of fans of yours along to meet you?"

Alan laughed. "Fans? Of mine?"

"Yep. You're a bit of a hero to some of these guys."

"In that case, bring them along. They can be amongst the first to see the new road version of my race car."

The horn heralding the ten-to-three break had no sooner sounded when Virgil was leading Bruce and Butch outside. "I've got someone I want you to meet."

"Yeah?" Bruce asked, taking a drink from his water bottle. "Who?"

"A good friend of mine."

Alan had been leaning against the side of his car while he waited. Now he was walking towards his brother. "Hi, Guys."

"Alan," Virgil began the introductions. "This is Bruce Sanders and Butch Crump. Fellas, this is Alan Tracy."

Butch's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. "Alan Tracy? THE Alan Tracy?"

Alan was grinning. "Well, I don't know of any others."

"The race car ace?"

Alan shrugged and tried to appear modest. "I do race cars for a living."

Bruce snickered. "The ace son of the ACE boss. Nice to finally meet you, Alan."

"You too, Bruce."

"Oh, man!" Butch enthused. "You're primo. You've got Victor Gomez shakin' in his shoes."

Alan laughed. "If you think that then you haven't met Gomez. It'll take more than some rookie driver to scare him."

"Rookie! You've got the championship wrapped up, no sweat."

"I appreciate your confidence in me." Alan indicated the highly decaled car. "Would you guys like to see the road version of my race beast? It's going to be released onto the general market to coincide with the final race, so you'll be amongst the first in the world to see it."

"Wow!" Butch's eyes were gleaming. "Oh, wow!"

"I think you can take that as a yes, Alan," Virgil grinned.

"Great! But first, if you don't mind, I've got to ask you all to sign these confidentiality forms." Alan held out three pieces of paper. "They're nothing too technical, just a promise that you won't reveal any of Team Tracy's secrets to anyone else… especially Team Gomez." He winked.

"Do I have to sign one?" Virgil asked, itching to get his hands on the latest example of precision automotive engineering.

"You've got to sign two," Alan chuckled. "Sign there… and there… Great!" He indicated the car. "Knock yourselves out." He stood back and watched as Virgil and Butch hustled forward. "Just wait," he whispered to Bruce. "In five seconds Virg'll have the hood up. In ten he'll be covered in grease."

The hood went up.

"Told you," Alan grinned. "So, Virg. What do you think?"

Virgil wiped his hands on his overalls and then rubbed his cheek leaving a dark smear. He smiled at his kid brother. "She looks like a rocket."

"Goes like one too."

"I hope you're planning on putting on a good show on Saturday," Bruce said. "You're going to have most of the ACE workforce in the crowd."

"I know," Alan admitted. "Our boss has instructed me that I'm to make sure that you all have a good time. Afterwards I'll take everyone for a burn around the track… If you can get them to limit their alcohol intake. I'm not planning on cleaning up the cockpit after anyone."

"I'll swap their beers with your grandmother's fire water," Bruce joked and then ducked his head. "Oops… Where's Butch?" He was relieved to realise that the other man was happily examining the rear of the race car and hadn't overheard. "Whew. I nearly let the cat out of the bag." He gave Alan a sheepish grin. "Your big brother would have been very angry with me."

Alan laughed. "I've only ever seen him go volcanic once, and that was this year; when Dad made him come back to work after Gordon had had his accident."

"So you didn't hear him rip into Scott when he was told that Gordon had been rushed into surgery?"

"No. I was too busy ripping things up myself." Alan gave a rueful grin. "I guess we're more alike than we realise… Come and have a look at the car."

The four men were exclaiming over the finer points of the vehicle when Lisa Crump exited the factory. "So this is where you boys are."

"Lisa!" Virgil grabbed Alan's sleeve and pulled his brother over so that he could meet his friend. "I'd like you to meet Alan Tracy. Alan, this is Lisa Crump."

Alan, already aware of Lisa's beauty through her nephew's video, managed to keep his eyes inside his head. "Pleased to meet you, Lisa. I've heard a lot about you."

"I'd hazard a guess that it's not all good," Lisa replied, glancing at Virgil and then back to Alan. "So you're the man my husband would run away with if he had the chance."

"What!" Alan looked astonished.

"I told you Butch was a fan," Virgil chuckled. "One of your biggest."

"Oh." Alan mimed wiping his forehead in relief.

"How long have you two known each other?" Lisa asked looking from Alan to Virgil… Then she looked back at Alan… Her smile froze and she looked back at Virgil. "Uhh…"

Alan took a step backwards. "I'd better go check on the car," he said. "I don't want, er, greasy fingerprints on the paintwork." He shot an apologetic look at Virgil before hurrying away.

Lisa watched him go with astonished eyes, before turning back to her friend. "He…? You…?"

Virgil couldn't stop smirking. "I always knew you were an intelligent woman, Lisa."

"You've got oil on your face. Let me get rid of some of it…" Lisa pulled a rag out her pocket and stepped closer to Virgil, wiping the smudge away from his cheek. "You sneak!" she hissed. "Alan Tracy is more than a friend to you."

Virgil pretended mock indignation. "I thought you'd know by now that I'm not like that!"

"That's not what I mean," she scolded quietly. "You two look alike enough that you've got to be related. What is he? Your cousin?"

"No." Virgil took the rag from her and tried to remove the oil from his face, succeeding in spreading it further. "Has it all gone?"

"There's a bit on your nose… Well?"

Virgil rubbed at the spot. "Is it still there?"

"Oh! You…" Lisa frowned at him. "You're deliberately teasing me, aren't you? Now tell me, Virgil Tancy! If Alan Tracy's not your cousin then…" The penny dropped along with her jaw. "Your name's not Tancy, is it?"

"No."

"It's Tracy!?"

Virgil nodded. "That's right. Alan's my youngest brother."

"You're Jeff Tracy's son?"

"Yes. I didn't want to receive any special treatment, so I've been working incognito."

"Working…" Lisa shook her head. "Who else knows?"

"Bruce, Hamish Mickelson, Louis, and Greg."

"But not Mega Watts?"

Virgil chuckled. "Do you think he'd treat the son of his hero the way he treats me if he knew who I really was? I was going to tell you and Butch the truth other day, but then he butted in."

"I wouldn't tell Butch," Lisa warned. "He wouldn't give you away on purpose, but he does have a tendency to blurt out things that are better unsaid."

"It doesn't matter," Virgil admitted. "If the rest of the staff don't know me well enough by now to treat me like everyone else…" He shrugged. "Then it's their problem, not mine."

Lisa shook her head in amazement. "I can't believe it… Jeff Tracy's son…" Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. "Then Mrs T is…?"

"My paternal grandmother."

"We've being discussing our marital woes with our boss's mother?!"

"Afraid so." Virgil smiled at her consternation. "I think she's enjoyed playing cupid. Her grandsons don't give her much of an opportunity."

"Oh, heck." Lisa held her hands against her cheeks as if she was trying to hide the fact that they were glowing red. "I feel so embarrassed."

"Why? She's the same person whoever her son is. And I know that she hasn't told Father what happened."

"Including finding me in your apartment?"

Virgil laughed. "I can see the headlines now. _Married woman found naked in billionaire's son's bed_. You could blackmail Jeff Tracy to keep it out of the tabloids."

"I wasn't naked in your bed. I wore my nightie," Lisa huffed. "I can't believe this… You're Jeff Tracy's son!"

"And proud of it," Virgil admitted. "I'm proud of him. I haven't enjoyed denying our relationship."

"No, you wouldn't." An intrigued look crossed Lisa's face. "This is being nosey, so tell me to butt out if you want to, but… is he _really_ a billionaire, or is that some story and he's just your common garden millionaire?"

Virgil laughed. "I haven't seen his bank statement lately, but he is the real MacCoy."

"Lisa!" There was a shout from over at the car. "Come and look at this."

"Coming, Honey!" Lisa turned back to Virgil. "Do you trust me with your secret?"

"Of course I do. I trust Butch too if you decide you want to tell him."

The pair of them walked over to the Team Tracy car. "I may do," Lisa mused, "but not until after the social club trip…" She smiled at her excited husband. "Having fun, Honey?"

Alan sidled up to his brother. "Sorry, Virg. She's guessed our relationship, hasn't she?"

"Don't worry about it, Alan. It's a relief to be able to tell someone… Now, show me this car."

The four men and Lisa leant on the edge of the automobile's body to get a closer look at the engine. "What do you think, Lisa?" Bruce asked. "Is the welding up to scratch?"

"Let's see…" Lisa always got a kick out of showing men that she wasn't just a pretty face. "That bit there's a bit ropey. They haven't cleaned away all the spatter. And…" she leant closer. "See those craters in the weld? They've used too much gas." She straightened. "I'd be ashamed to produce a weld like that, and there's no way that ACE's quality control would let that pass."

"I'll tell our Q.C. and see what he says," Alan responded. "Apart from that one weld?"

"Looks impressive."

"Come and look at this, Lisa!" Butch dragged his wife around to the far side of the car to explain some of its finer features.

"You're flying out to the track on Saturday, right?" Alan asked. "Do you think I could hitch a ride back?"

"I don't mind," Virgil said, "but Bruce is the organiser. You'd better check with him."

"Not a problem," Bruce responded. He checked to see the Crumps were out of earshot. "Are you both going to fly to the Willis afterwards?"

"I thought it'd be easier to travel with Virgil than make my own way there," Alan admitted.

"What happened to the Culiseta?" Virgil asked. "I thought you'd want to take your new baby."

"She's, ah, developed, um, a few faults," Alan stammered. "If they can't fix her then I'm going to swap her for something…"

"Bigger?" Virgil enquired with a smirk.

"I was going to say more reliable."

"Oh, the Culiseta was reliable enough. You could rely on it to break your back."

"The Culiseta is a precision aircraft!" Alan pouted. "You'd know that if you'd tried flying her."

"Flying her? Getting into her was enough of a challenge!"

"You never gave her a chance. You'd made up your mind that you didn't like her before you'd even attempted to get into her…"

"Guys!" Grinning, Bruce held up a hand to interrupt the bickering brothers. "I hate to break this little discussion up, but afternoon tea's over. If we don't want Watts on our tail we'd better get back."

Virgil looked at his watch. "Time flies when you're having fun. Sorry, Alan, but I've got to go."

"No worries. I'll see you all on Saturday"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil was the first at the airfield early on Saturday morning. His initial stop was at the office to sign all the necessary paperwork to enable ACE to hire a turbo-prop aeroplane for the day.

He ran into Bruce as he was leaving the building. "Hiya. I've finalised everything and that puddle-jumper over there's ours."

"Puddle-jumper?" Bruce cast a critical eye over the aeroplane. "It's bigger than I thought it would be and a lot bigger than yours. Are you sure you're capable of flying it?"

"Have some faith." Virgil reached into his wallet and pulled out a small piece of plastic. "That's my licence. They wouldn't let me hire the plane if I didn't have the qualifications."

"Single-engine land, multi-engine land, single-engine sea, multi-engine sea. Rotorcraft… Powered Lift… Glider…" Wide-eyed Bruce looked back at his friend. "Is there anything you're not qualified to fly?"

"Space rocket…" Virgil grinned. "But I'm working on it."

"Space rocket!? Is that a joke?"

"You sound like my brothers. What do you think?" Virgil laughed. "Hello, Uncle Hamish."

"Morning, Virgil. Bruce." Hamish Mickelson had abandoned his usual work suit for something more casual. "Is this our plane?"

"This is it." Virgil confirmed. "Isn't Aunty Edna coming?"

"No. She has a headache and didn't think a day around loud engines and exhaust fumes would be particularly beneficial. She's disappointed that she won't get to see Alan race though."

"We'll have to get the pair of you tickets to his final race," Virgil said. "Ready to co-pilot today?"

Hamish grinned. "I'm looking forward to it. It's been a long time since I've flown anything bigger than a Citation."

Bit-by-bit, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in groups, the staff of ACE and their partners arrived at the airport and Virgil took advantage of the wait to do his checks of the aeroplane. Inside and out he confirmed that the craft was fully operational and well-maintained. Satisfied, he joined the rest of ACE. "She's ship-shape. We can leave whenever we're ready."

"Is he qualified?" Paul asked Bruce.

"Trust me, he's qualified," Bruce responded. "If anything he's over-qualified. Okay, everyone. All aboard."

Talking excitedly, everyone boarded the plane and took their seats. They seemed to be divided into three camps. The first was headed by Max Watts: those who, either through loyalty to ACE or a desire to keep on Jeff Tracy's good side, supported Alan. The second group, including Butch Crump, genuinely liked Alan Tracy's abilities, fancied his chances, and therefore supported Team Tracy. Virgil found himself torn between these two camps. The third group, a minority, were those who had always supported another team and refused to change for anyone. Even their boss.

Virgil slid into the pilot's seat and smiled at Hamish who claimed the co-pilot's seat. "Ready?" He started his final checks.

"I'm ready whenever they are."

Bruce was making the announcements. "Okay! Everyone listening, please… Quiet… Shush down the back… I have a few announcements that I must make." He consulted his card. "This is mainly a non-smoking aircraft. Anyone who absolutely, positively must have a drag can retire to the smoking section… which is through that exit door over there and 20 metres behind the port wing." His audience chuckled. "No drinking on the flight and I have been advised by Alan Tracy himself that he will take any interested parties on a 'burn' around the track after the race," there was a buzz in the cabin, "providing they haven't had too much to drink. So make the choice during the flight. Imbibe or ride? I'll be sending around a list so if you want to book your seat now, sign the pledge." He handed a clipboard to the first passenger. "Anyone caught behaving in an unacceptable manner designed to cause damage to this plane or discomfort to people travelling therein, will be summarily escorted off the plane by flight-attendant Butch…" He produced a jaunty cap and placed it on the big man's head. Butch good-naturedly turned in his seat and waved to the assembled company.

A voice came from the back of the aeroplane. "And anyone caught behaving themselves in an acceptable manner will receive a kiss from flight-attendant Lisa."

Butch lost his sense of humour and glared in the general direction of the voice's owner.

"Followed by a kiss from flight-attendant Butch," Bruce joked; relieving the sudden tension. He finished giving out his instructions and then took his seat. "We're ready back here, Virgil."

"Final check before we start the engines," Virgil announced. He climbed out of his seat and walked down the plane's aisle to reassure himself that all safety restraints were done up and secure. "Okay, everyone. The weather for the flight's looking good. It should be a smooth trip so relax and enjoy yourselves. Any questions you can ask me or my co-pilot, Mr Mickelson."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

As Virgil had predicted, the flight had been smooth and uneventful and they arrived in plenty of time to claim their allocated seats at the race track.

Virgil settled into a seat in the far rear corner of the grandstand out of the way of more dedicated race devotees. He pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, pulled his Team Tracy hat down low, and withdrew a sketchpad from his bag.

"With all this testosterone about, I want to make sure I'm safe." Lisa took the seat beside him and pulled her husband down so she was sandwiched between the two men. "There. That's better. Now I'm protected on all sides."

"So you think you can trust me, do you?" Virgil teased.

"I know I can trust you," Lisa replied. "I know too much about you, Mr _Tancy_."

Virgil's cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and showed Lisa how the body of the phone was glowing orange. "It's a text message from Gordon. If it was blue it would be from Scott, purple from John, white from Alan, gold from Father and green from Grandma."

"And if they all send you a text at once?" Lisa asked.

"It turns into a rainbow." Virgil read Gordon's text message. _How'd you manage 2 score a seat next 2 the luscious Lisa?_ "Huh?" He pulled his hat down lower and looked about for a camera, glad he was wearing his sunglasses. "We must be on TV." He pointed to a large video screen on the far side of the track, and then indicated his phone. "Gordon knows I'm sitting next to you."

"He does?" Before he had a chance to react, Lisa had grabbed Virgil's phone. She read the message and giggled. "I think I like your brother."

"You didn't like him last time you met," Virgil reminded her.

"Was he the one who visited you at ACE and…"

"The red-head." Virgil nodded. "That's him. He hasn't been able to goose anyone in weeks."

Lisa's face registered horror, as the pre-match entertainment started blaring through the speakers. "He was the one who had the accident?" she asked as she got her microphone connected earmuffs out of her bag. She tuned them into Virgil's frequency. "How badly was he hurt?"

Virgil had donned his own earmuffs so that they could continue their conversation without being overheard. "Bad enough that he only has limited mobility in one arm. But his mind's just as sharp as it ever was."

"He still has a sense of humour?"

Virgil laughed. "It'd take more than a boat crash to knock that out of him."

"Well… In that case, maybe I can get some of my own back." Lisa began thumbing something into Virgil's phone. "Be-cause… I… chose… to… sit… be-tween… the… two… hand-som-est… men… at… A.C.E." She pressed send.

"You've just sent him a challenge," Virgil said. "He's not going to let a comment like that slide by."

The response arrived a minute later. _Is that you, Lisa? You can't mean Virgil. You've never seen how he looks when he's just got out of bed._

"Oh, he's cheeky." Lisa entered something into the keypad. "Should I send it?" she giggled, holding the phone so that Virgil could see the message.

Virgil read the screen. It was only a three word reply, but he knew those three words would send Gordon into a frenzy of curiosity. _He's seen me._ "You're wicked, Lisa!"

Her finger hovered over the send button. "Yes? No?"

"Well…" Virgil thought quickly. "They say you should never commit to hard copy anything that you'd be ashamed to show your grandmother. But, since Grandma was there, I can't see any harm…"

Lisa had already sent the message on its way. She handed the phone back to him with an impish grin. "How long before you'll get a reply."

Virgil's phone sparked into life. A kaleidoscope of orange, blue, green and purple lights flashed and for good measure his watch chimed its own insistent chord. "Now look what you've done."

"Haven't you told them what happened?"

"No," Virgil shook his head. "I don't very often get the chance to tease them." He grinned. "They've done it often enough to me over the years and a little retribution never hurt anyone." He scrolled through his messages. "_Spill the beans, Virg_:that's from Scott." He brought up the next message. "_You've done what?!!!_ Three exclamation points. _Now you've got to tell us all what happened. _That's from John. He'll always use any communication device to the max. And the _Hello, Lisa, dear_ is from Grandma."

"What does Gordon say?" Lisa asked.

"His message is for you." Virgil handed her the phone.

_Tell me. I'm the soul of discretion. If easier get V 2 give you my #._

"Soul of discretion," Virgil snorted. "Yeah, right."

"What is his cell number?"

Virgil looked at her. "Do you really want it?"

"I'm sure he won't start stalking me if he gets my number."

"Okay." Virgil gave her Gordon's number, sent a couple of quick, deliberately irritating, nondescript replies to his elder brothers, a general greeting to his grandmother, and then settled down with his sketch pad.

"What are you doing?" Lisa asked as she waited for a reply.

"When Alan wins the title," Virgil explained, "I'm going to give him a painting of him receiving the checked flag. I'm using the warm up races to get a few rough sketches so I've got a feel of the scene."

Lisa's cell phone beeped. She read Gordon's response and then showed Virgil. "Does he mean it?"

_I owe you apology, Lisa, for the way I treated you when we met. Sorry._

Virgil read the message. "I think he does. I hope the accident's knocked all the arrogance out of him."

Lisa sent a reply; _I forgive you,_ and waited for the response.

_Thank q I hope someday I cn apologie face to face_

It was quickly followed by another text message.

_Thats if you cn ber talkin to a dribbly cripple _

"Oh," Lisa exclaimed. "That's so sad."

Virgil read the message over her shoulder. "He's getting tired, and he's getting frustrated, and he's making mistakes. You've got him to exercise his fingers on that keypad a lot more than we've been able to."

Lisa sent her response. _Of course I want 2 meet you, & you've already apologised, Gordon_. _You don't need 2 do it again._

_Thank q_

_Are you tired?_ _Do you want to stop texting?_

_Yes Sorry_

_That's okay. Txt me anytime._

Lisa put her phone away. "What's his long term future?"

Virgil shrugged. "We don't know. We're still hopeful." Then he started working in earnest on his sketches. Several races passed by and, without getting too caught up in the excitement of them all, he did his best to capture the atmosphere on paper.

"Hey, Virgil!" Bruce Sanders pushed his way past his work colleagues. "Have you got any of your grandmother's firewater going spare?"

"Yes." Virgil reached into his bag. "Why? Do you want some?"

"Yeah." Bruce opened the bottle and sniffed it suspiciously. "I need something with a bit more of a kick in it than O.J., but without the alcoholic effects." He took a tentative sip, before attempting a longer swig. "Hey, not bad."

Virgil grinned. "I could have told you that. What's with the change of heart? Are you planning on letting Alan take you for a tour of the track?"

"I doubt I'll have time," the social club's co-ordinator declared. "No, I need something to fortify me so I can wrangle this lot," he indicated his workmates, "but I need a clear head so I can…"

"Wrangle this lot," Virgil finished and reached into his bag to retrieve a second bottle. "Have another."

"No, I can't drink all your stuff."

"Don't worry about it," Virgil said. "I can make do with orange juice."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive…"

"And now," the tannoy announced, "it is time for the feature race of the day."

"Good!" Virgil put his sketch pad away.

"Better get back. Catch you later, Virgil." Bruce pushed his way back to his designated seat.

"There's Alan," Virgil told Lisa, pointing to the familiar helmeted figure striding out to his race car.

Alan listened to his manager and nodded several times. Then he turned, waved to where ACE's staff members were sitting, and climbed into the car positioned at the front of the pack in pole position.

"Didya see that?" Butch enthused. "He waved at us."

The noise from the cars grew deafening and Virgil was glad of his earmuffs. He sat forward straining to catch the moment when the flag would drop and Alan's penultimate race would begin.

His phone vibrated. "You can wait," he muttered to the instrument. "You must know the race is going to start!"

The flag dropped and the competitors were off; Alan and Victor Gomez already in a dog-fight to see who would lead through the first bend. The winner was Gomez; showing his greater experience as he snuck through underneath Alan's car.

"Don't worry," Butch told Lisa. "He'll get back in front."

With the lead cars only visible on the big screen TV, Virgil checked his text message. Instead of glowing to tell him which family member wanted to talk, the phone had remained a neutral grey. He was not happy to see that it was an alert from the local weather service to warn him of an approaching storm. The front was about four hours away, so he dropped the phone back into his pocket and scanned the horizon for the first signs of trouble.

The skies were blue and clear.

"Here they come!" Butch yelled.

The volume of noise had increased again. People were on their feet yelling and cheering as the lead cars surged into view; Alan still hot on Victor Gomez's tail. They flashed past the start/finish line, roared along the straight and disappeared out of sight.

Virgil didn't have to check his texts again during the race; a sign that the weather office didn't have further concerns about the storm. He watched on the TV screen as Gomez and Alan roared along the back straight towards a corner and Alan drew closer to the older man's car… Waiting for the moment to pounce…

Either unnerved by, or unaware of, the young upstart on his tail, Gomez approached the bend too wide leaving Alan's car with more than enough space to be able to slip past. The Team Tracy car made its move, drawing level with the leading car's rear wheel… Before dropping back, allowing Gomez to round the corner unmolested and still in front.

The ACE grandstand was abuzz as they passed judgement.

"He's lost it."

"Yeah. Tracy's just lost the race!"

"He could have taken Gomez then and there and clinched it."

"There's no point in watching now. The race is Gomez's."

"…And the series."

"I could have driven m' bus through that gap!"

"What's he doin'?" Butch howled, on his feet in anguish. "He coulda overtakin' easy! What's wrong with 'im?"

Virgil was wondering the same thing. It was a simple manoeuvre that Alan normally would have made without fuss or stress. Even his Grandma wouldn't have had kittens if Alan had overtaken at that point. Something was clearly wrong and Virgil wondered if it was with the car or its driver.

"Will Alan Tracy get another easy chance to overtake Victor Gomez?" the tannoy asked.

"We've got three laps to find out," his associate replied. "What's wrong with him?"

"I've noticed that ever since Alan's brother was nearly killed in that well-publicised accident," the first voice said, "that young Tracy has been less aggressive in his driving style."

"Do you think, somehow, the accident's preying on his mind?" commentator Number Two asked. It was a question that Virgil was asking himself.

"He missed one race to stay with his brother," Number One recollected. "Maybe Alan's head isn't where it should be… on the track."

Lisa leant close to Virgil. "Are you okay?"

Virgil nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. I wish they'd shut up about Gordon though. They're probably broadcasting what they're saying over the TV. He'll be hearing them, and if I know Gordon, he'll be blaming himself."

"Do you think that's what's wrong with Alan?"

"Could be. He'd never admit to it though."

It was the final lap and Alan was still chasing his nemesis. "Come on…" Virgil muttered; every muscle in his body desperate to get down onto that track to make his kid brother drive faster. "Come on, Alan! You can do it. Do it for Gordon!"

The two cars were on the final straight, Gomez in front; Alan close behind; and ahead of them both, the tail of the race waiting to be lapped. As a courtesy, one of those cars moved over to allow the two faster vehicles through.

Gomez moved up to overtake…

The last placed car blew a tyre. It slewed across the track to the safety of the gravel on the other side, narrowly missing Victor Gomez who had to take evasive action to avoid a collision. He spun out, turning 360 degrees, stopped, gunned his engine, and took off towards the finish… and second place.

The ACE grandstand erupted into cheers when the winning car crossed the finish line, and Virgil breathed a sigh of relief.

"He did it!" Lisa squealed, giving Virgil a hug of delight and then planting a jubilant kiss on her husband's lips. "He did it! He won!"

"And, despite a major error earlier in the race, Alan Tracy has managed to secure a much needed win," the tannoy burbled. "This puts him neck-and-neck with Victor Gomez in the championship race. The final races promise to be a real showdown with the winner taking all."

Alan may have won, but he wasn't behaving like someone who'd managed to tie the score with his main rival. Instead he clambered out of his car and wandered over to Victor Gomez. The two men spoke quietly and without emotion, then Alan retreated out of sight into the Team Tracy headquarters.

"The presentation of race honours will be held in five minutes on the podium," the tannoy announced.

"Come one, everyone!" Bruce yelled to his colleagues. "We've got ringside seats booked down there." The ACE workforce surged forward, each individual eager to gain the best vantage point to catch a glimpse of the man who'd won the race.

When Alan did make an appearance to mount the dais, he was wearing a Team Tracy baseball cap pulled down low to conceal most of his hair, and his large sunglasses hid much of his face. He accepted the winner's bottle of champagne with good grace, but Virgil had the feeling that it was with the air of someone who didn't really believe that he deserved the accolade. This impression was reinforced when Alan pulled a surly Gomez onto the winner's podium beside him and offered him the bottle.

As soon as the award ceremony was over, Alan disappeared again.

Virgil pushed his way through a noisy celebratory ACE party and sought out Hamish Mickelson. "I'm going to go and find Alan," he shouted into the older man's ear.

"Okay," Hamish agreed. "Try not to be too long. The food's just arriving."

Using his Team Tracy pass, which he'd been careful to hide from his associates, Virgil was allowed past the heavy security to his brother's trailer. He tapped on the door.

"Come in."

Virgil opened the door and stuck his head inside. "Congratulations."

Alan was sitting on the edge of his bed nursing a bottle of water. "What for? Congratulations on managing to avoid snatching defeat from the jaws of victory?"

Virgil helped himself to some water from the fridge and took a seat. "What happened?"

"I had him. All I had to do was slip past and I would have held the lead for the rest of the race. It should have been easy and I blew it."

"Not necessarily. You might have got caught up in the action at the end and Gomez might have slipped through and won," Virgil pointed out.

Alan had a swig of water. "I was lining Gomez up and thinking how stupid he was to leave a gap that big when he must have known I was on his tail. And then..."

"And then?" Virgil queried.

"I had this sudden vision of Gordon lying there, helpless..."

"Ah." Virgil sipped his water and waited to see what was coming next.

"He's not getting better, is he?" Alan asked, and Virgil had to admit that he hadn't noticed any improvements in his brother's condition lately. "He knows, doesn't he?"

Virgil cast his mind back to the last time he'd been at the Willis Institute. Weeks earlier he'd decided that Gordon needed an appropriate painting at the foot of his bed, so that he'd have something other than a blank wall to look at. Initially Gordon had been keen on the idea, especially when Virgil had insisted that they work on the painting together; Gordon feeding him thoughts on what should be in the picture, and Virgil working to Gordon's designs. At first it had gone well. Gordon enthusiastically suggesting a split scene picture, with Tracy Island as the backdrop of the top third and the bottom section comprising of an undersea scene. Virgil had brought in books on aquatic flora and fauna, so that Gordon was able to indicate which species of marine life to include. All was going swimmingly, as it were, until Virgil had suggested painting a snorkeler in the background.

Gordon had negated the suggestion.

The next day, after working for about ten minutes, Virgil had suggested a swimmer, wearing a face mask, peering through the seaweed.

Gordon had suddenly become tired.

During last weekend's session things had been progressing well until Virgil suggested a scuba-diver's flippered leg protruding from behind a rock.

Gordon had kicked him out.

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "He does know."

"Like I said, I saw this vision of Gordon and I realised that I don't want to end up like that."

"None of us do, Alan."

"I can see now why Dad was worried about my driving style. He didn't want to see any of us hurt. Gordon's accident is practically killing him."

"So you've become extra cautious?"

Alan nodded. "Have you thought about how dangerous International Rescue's going to be?"

"Of course I've thought about it," Virgil admitted. "But I've also thought that we've got some pretty darn good safety equipment and lots of fail-safes built in."

"But something could go wrong!" Alan insisted.

"True," Virgil acknowledged. "Something could go wrong. We could blow a tyre like that car today."

Alan looked at him with an earnest expression. "Have you considered that you're most likely to be the one above that tyre?"

"Yes. And I've also thought that you're the one most likely to get burnt up on re-entry, and John's the one most likely to be hit by a meteor shower, and Scott's the one most likely to get hurt trying to get one of us out of whatever situation we've got ourselves into."

"But doesn't the danger worry you? Could you accept ending up like Gordon if you knew that you could have prevented it now by deciding not to join International Rescue?"

Virgil stared at his bottle as he rotated it in his hands. He took a drink before answering. "I wouldn't want to end up like Gordon. In fact I would _hate_ to end up like Gordon. But then I don't want to sit back safe in a dead-end job and not achieve anything. Even if the payback was that I ended up like Gordon or worse, so long as I had saved one life, then I'd think it was worth it."

Alan stared at him. "Really?"

Virgil nodded and looked his brother in the eye. "Yes, really."

Alan dropped his head. "I wish I was sure," he whispered.

"Look, there's still a month until Thanksgiving," Virgil stated. "You've got plenty of time to think about whether or not you want to be part of International Rescue. No one's going to think any less of you if you decide you don't want to be part of the team."

Alan gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. We wouldn't!"

"Maybe you wouldn't, but the others would. They'll think that I'm just a little kid like they always do. A scared little kid."

"No, they wouldn't," Virgil protested.

"Of course they would. Can you imagine what Gordon would think of me? He's got no choice! He's stuck in a hospital bed, trapped by his own body, unable to do anything, and here's me: too chicken to do anything."

"Trust me, Alan. He wouldn't think that. He'd understand."

"Would he?" Alan put his bottle on a table. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to have to follow in the footsteps of four overachieving brothers?"

"No," Virgil admitted. "But I do know what it's like to have an older brother who was awarded a medal for valour, another who's written an award winning book, a younger brother who's won an Olympic gold medal, and another who's going to win a world championship. Alongside you guys, I'm a failure."

"No, you're not," Alan rebuked him. "You graduated top of your year from Denver."

"Yeah, but to most people that means nothing."

"It's the top school of its type in the country!"

"True, but it's not an Ivy League School like Yale or Harvard."

"That doesn't mean you're stupid," Alan protested. "Far from it!"

"Thanks. But most people haven't even heard of the Denver School of Advanced Technology."

"You're not a failure, Virgil," Alan reiterated.

"I know I'm not," Virgil agreed. "And I think I'm adult enough to recognise that while I may not have done anything really outstanding on the world stage, I've achieved enough to be happy and to be recognised as an individual by the people who are important to me: my friends and family."

Alan looked at his elder brother. "How come you're so confident and I'm not?"

"I had enough years as a child being teased for who I was and what I am. I don't intend to let it bother me as an adult. So I take the opinion that if anyone doesn't like Virgil Tracy then too bad! This is me and they'd better accept it."

Alan managed a wry grin. "And this is from a guy who's lived the past year under an alias?"

"Touché." Virgil chuckled. "But I haven't enjoyed that side of my life. Do you think I wanted to introduce you to Max Watts and Lisa and Butch as Jeff Tracy's son, instead of as my brother? I'm like all of us in this family: proud of you and proud of what you've achieved so far. And if you decide that you're not going to join International Rescue, then that's not going to change how I feel about you. You might be my kid brother, Alan, but I know you're not a kid. You're adult enough to make the decision that's right for you."

Alan mumbled "thanks," as someone knocked at the door. As if he were trying to hide his embarrassment he quickly got up to answer it.

A mechanic was standing there. "The car's ready for you, Alan."

"Great. Give me a moment to get changed," Alan acknowledged before looking over his shoulder. "Do you mind hanging around for a couple of minutes, Virgil?"

"No, and I've no problems hanging around until Thanksgiving either... Whatever the outcome."

Alan had the quickest of showers before changing into jeans and a Team Tracy polo-necked sweater. "Come on," he said as he pulled on a Team Tracy jacket. "I promised our boss that I'd give ACE a good time, so I'd better make sure they do." The two brothers left the caravan. "You know," Alan said, zipping up his jacket against a cool breeze that had sprung up. "You still haven't told me the full story of what went on between you and Lisa."

"Nothing went on," Virgil responded.

"Come on, Virg. You said she was naked in your apartment."

"Did I say that?" Virgil feigned ignorance.

"You promised to tell me what happened," Alan whined.

"I said I'd tell you if you rang me. You never rang, so I don't have to tell you."

Alan got his cell phone out of his pocket and punched a speed-dial number.

Virgil's phone rang. "That doesn't count… And don't pout. You're not a little kid, remember?"

They entered the garage.

Alan's steed stood ready and waiting, her paint gleaming and her wheels polished. Virgil gave an appreciative whistle. She looks like she's doing 100 standing still."

"She's all right," Alan acknowledged, giving his car an affectionate pat on the bonnet. Then he took two helmets down off a shelf. Keeping the monogrammed one for himself, he threw the other at his brother. "Catch!"

Virgil caught the helmet and looked at it askance. "Just what do you have planned?"

Alan gave a wicked grin. "Me? Nothing. You're going to drive her and I want all the protection I can get."

"What?!" Virgil stared at him as if he hadn't heard correctly. "Me!"

Alan got into the passenger seat. "Let's see if you've got what it takes to be a tarmac jockey." Virgil looked at the driver's seat as if it were a nuclear reactor about to explode. "Come on! It won't bite."

"Are you sure I'm allowed to do this?" Virgil asked. "Isn't there some race rule against allowing non-team members to drive team cars?"

"Oh, there is. But you're a team member. That was the second piece of paper I got you to sign when I was at ACE the other day."

Virgil stared at him. "You got me to sign a form under false pretences?"

"You didn't have to sign. Besides, you're the one who didn't read the document first, so you've only got yourself to blame." Then Alan became serious. "I wanted you to sign it because it means you can work on the engine too."

Virgil was stunned. "I can?"

Alan looked down and twisted his fingers together. "I figured it was the least I could do since I ignored you on your birthday."

"Alan, I…"

But Alan didn't want to listen, perking up again instead. "There's the ignition button. Push that and hear this baby roar."

Virgil decided that there'd been enough talking done today and that it was time for some action. He pushed the ignition switch and felt a quiet thrill as the car rumbled into life.

"Good," Alan approved. "Now, she's just like any other car, only more responsive and way more powerful. Drive out that door, turn right, and let's see what you can get out of her.

It was an adrenaline rush as they sped around the circuit, Alan giving instructions as to when to brake and when to accelerate. They only slowed down when they went past ACE's party so that Virgil's workmates could see who was driving the car.

After one full lap of the track, they pulled up to applause, catcalls and laughter from ACE's employees.

Alan pulled himself through the car's window so he was sitting on the sill, facing the crowd. "How do you think he did?"

There were teasing jeers in reply. "My grandmother could drive better than that!"

"Just as well you're quicker flying the plane, Virgil; else we'd only just be arriving."

"No chances of you getting any speeding tickets, Veggie."

Alan grinned, enjoying the banter. "Should I show him how a real driver operates?"

"Yes!"

"Right," Alan swung out of the car and slid across the bonnet to the driver's side. "Out you get, Virg. Time for a professional to show you how it's really done."

Virgil walked around the car and got into the passenger seat. "Why do I have a suspicion that this isn't a good idea?"

"Relax… You'll enjoy it." Alan set off in a cloud of smoke, to the sound of screeching tyres and cheers from the crowd left in their wake.

'Unnerving' was how Virgil described this circuit. Not that he had a chance to articulate his thoughts as Alan kept up a running commentary on the course, and the merits of his car. "She can turn on a dime," he said as if he was partaking in polite dinner party conversation; one hand resting casually on the edge of the window as the other manipulated the steering wheel. "And she brakes like she's hit a brick wall," he added as they drove, full speed, towards what looked to Virgil like a brick wall. As Alan applied the brakes, turning way after what Virgil considered to be the point of no return, he added, "She's a dream to drive."

Virgil decided that this particular run was more like a nightmare and wasn't altogether unhappy when, with a 180 degree handbrake stop, Alan pulled up outside the party. "Do you want to go around again?" the younger Tracy asked.

"No, thanks," Virgil said, and got out of the car before Alan had a chance to take off again.

A group was coming towards them. "What colour's green, Virgil?" Bruce teased.

"Green?" someone from the paint department asked. "I thought he was white."

"Yeah," Louis agreed. "You're looking a bit unsteady there, Veggie."

"I'm okay." Virgil handed his helmet to Bruce. "Your turn."

It's was Bruce's turn to pale. "What?"

"Nothing to it," Virgil bragged. "You just sit back and enjoy the ride."

"Come on, Bruce," Alan said. "Get in."

"But… But… I've got to make sure everything's…" he was pulled over to the car and pushed into the passenger seat. "Under control," he finished lamely as his safety harness was buckled up.

Virgil patted him on the shoulder. "Any last requests?"

"Yeah. That Butch sings _My Way_ at my funeral and Lisa sheds thousands of tears on my casket."

Virgil laughed and shut the car door and stood back as the car roared away.

"I put my name down to have a ride," Lisa commented. "I'm beginning to have second thoughts."

"I thought I was over motion-sickness, but after that trip I've got my doubts," Virgil admitted. "So, with your stomach, I wouldn't recommend it" He grinned. "But Alan would probably go easy on you."

"No, I won't chance it." Lisa shrugged elegant shoulders. "Butch is keen. He can have my turn too."

It seemed that not everyone was keen to go out for a spin with Alan. The young women who'd been hired by the race organisers to add a bit of glamour to the meet had joined the party, much to the pleasure of a good many of the younger men. There was plenty of food on hand, but it appeared that some members of the ACE workforce were more interested in the women and alcohol that was available.

"I think I'm going to have to close the bar soon," Hamish Mickelson said. "Some of these guys are going overboard."

"I think you're right," Virgil agreed, looking around to check that no one was watching before crossing one of his workmates' name off the 'pledge' sheet. "He was drinking during the warm-ups. There's no way Alan's going to want him in his car. I'll warn Bruce when he gets back."

"Here he is now," Hamish responded. "How was the ride, Bruce?"

"Hair-raising," Bruce responded. "Are you going to have a ride, Mr Mickelson?"

Hamish chuckled. "I think I'll leave that to you younger people."

"You'd probably enjoy it," Vigil rejoined. "Imagine you're in the cockpit of a fighter jet." He turned to Bruce. "Some of the guys are disqualifying themselves from having a ride." He pointed to a name. "I've already crossed him off."

"He's out too," Bruce said, adding a mark of his own. "You're going to have to have a ride, Mr Mickelson, else Alan'll think we don't trust his driving."

"Who's he got now?" Virgil asked.

"Butch. You should have seen the grin he had on his face when he got into the car. You'd think it was his birthday, Christmas, and the day Lisa agreed to marry him all rolled into one."

"This I've got to see," Virgil said, and led the way down to where Lisa was standing by the edge of the track.

Butch must have been enjoying himself, because instead of pulling up after one circuit, Alan kept going on a second lap. When the car finally halted the big man shook his hero's hand before getting out of the car, a huge smile almost splitting his face in two. He grabbed Lisa and, elated by what he'd just experienced, spun her around. "Wow!" he kept exclaiming. "That was primo!"

"Come on, Uncle Hamish," Alan called, leaning across the passenger's seat. "Your turn."

"Ah… No, thanks, Alan. I don't think so."

"Get in," Alan cajoled. "I'll go easy on you."

"Well…" Hamish Mickelson wavered.

"Go on," Virgil prompted. "I'll hold your glass." He took the orange juice out of the older man's hand.

"Well…" Hamish repeated. "Okay." He got into the car and Alan made a fuss over him to ensure that his safety harness was done up tightly and that his helmet was secure but comfortable. Then, to the accompaniment of cheers and whistles from his employees, ACE's General Manager was on his way.

When he returned, after a double lap, his grin was almost as big as Butch's had been. "I haven't had that much fun since I was in the Air Force," he admitted as he accepted his drink back from Virgil. "I'm only glad that Edna wasn't here. She would have had kittens!"

Virgil's cell phone vibrated and he retrieved it from his pocket, unhappy to see that it was a uniform grey colour. He read the screen and then showed it to his boss. "We're going to have to start moving."

Hamish nodded, his ebullient mood gone. "You'd better tell Bruce. If need be I'll make it a company directive."

Bruce was lost in the crowd somewhere and Virgil had difficulty locating him. He eventually found his friend chatting up one of the racetrack beauties. "Sorry, but we've got to shut the party down."

Bruce looked dismayed. "But why? Things are just starting to get," he glanced at his new girlfriend, "interesting." She giggled.

"We need to leave now to make sure we get home safely."

Bruce looked confused. "Safely? Why wouldn't we be safe?"

Virgil pointed to an ominous black line across the sky. "That's why. That's a major storm that's been brewing all day and I've just received word from the airport that it's heading in our direction. If we don't leave now, it could hit us before we're halfway home…"

_To be continued…_


	16. A Quiet Flight

_Well, we're at the halfway point in this tale and I'm picking that Virgil would love this year to end._

_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. They are all appreciated. You forget how addictive reviews are until you start receiving them (or not as the case may be). I know I'm not replying to many of them, but rest assured, I'm loving receiving them and I appreciate your feedback and finding out what resonates with you. _

_The bribes being offered to encourage me to post daily are tempting, but, unless someone can arrange for Virgil to stop by in Thunderbird Two, I'm afraid I'm going to stick to my posting every second day policy. (Of course Virgil might be tempted to stop by just to try to talk me out of beating him up!)_

_So, after that bit of housekeeping, on with the show. And as black4minister said, we have "a storm, a plane, and a Virgil"... do you think it's going to be an easy trip home? Let's see..._

_F-A-B_

:-) _Purupuss_

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**16: A Quiet Flight**

With a storm approaching, Virgil was not about to take any shortcuts with his pre-flight checks. He'd left his colleagues at the track and had grabbed a taxi to the airfield so that he could prepare the aeroplane and, hopefully, reduce the chance of any delays. As soon as he'd paid off the taxi driver, he'd checked into the hire company's branch office, and then hurried over to the turboprop aeroplane that was waiting patiently for its cargo of ACE employees and their families.

In the cockpit he checked the landing light, anti-collision strobes, and rotating beacon.

Then Virgil checked his watch.

After making sure that all power was cut to the aeroplane's engines, he disembarked and began his exterior inspection. Starting at the port wing, he worked his way around the back of the aeroplane, down the starboard side, and then around the nose before returning to the port wing.

Then he checked his phone.

He checked the antennae and the flaps and ailerons. He checked that the fuel tanks were both full with the correct avgas, that the fuel caps were secure, and that the oil tank was also full and the oil within was clean. He checked for popped rivets, cracks and any other signs of degradation in the wings. He checked the wingtips; and, just to be on the safe side, he checked the night-flight green-for-starboard / red-for-port position lights.

Then he checked his watch again.

He checked the landing gear to make sure there was nothing that could cause the wheel well doors to jam, tyres to deflate or burst, and that the struts that supported the weight of the aeroplane on landing showed no signs of wear and tear or corrosion.

Then he looked at the blackening skies and cursed under his breath.

He returned to the passenger cabin and checked that the seats and safety harnesses were secure and, despite the fact that he'd only checked it this morning, checked that the fire-extinguishers were full, had up-to-date compliance certificates, and were in place. When he was satisfied that the passenger cabin was up to his high standards, then he returned to the cockpit to check that everything was operating as it should. With a glance at the onboard chronometer he sat in his pilot's seat and went through his mental checklist until he had convinced himself that everything was ready.

The aeroplane was prepared for the flight. Virgil was prepared for the flight. The only thing that wasn't prepared for the flight were his passengers.

Virgil looked at his watch for the tenth time that he'd been at the airfield and frowned. "Come on, Bruce…" He dialled a number on his cell phone. "Where are you guys?"

"Sorry, Virgil," Bruce sounded apologetic. "I've got most of them on the bus, but some of them have disappeared. Mr Mickelson, Watts and Greg are rounding them up now."

"Well, I wish they'd hurry."

"Why?" worry clouded Bruce's voice. "How bad is this storm?"

"I'm not too worried about the storm," Virgil admitted. "It's not tracking directly across our flight path, and to make sure I've decided to fly further south than we did getting here, but we're still going to be flying through the edges of it, and the longer we wait, the closer it'll get and the rougher the flight will be. This is supposed to be an enjoyable afternoon out, but it's not going to be much fun if anyone's sick… Especially as I'll be the one cleaning up afterwards."

"Point taken." Bruce relaxed. "I'll see what I can do to hurry them along. I'll call when we're leaving."

"Thanks." Virgil had barely hung up the phone when it rang again. "Hi, Alan."

"Hi, Virg. Is everything okay? Bruce said you were sounding stressed."

"I wouldn't say stressed. Try impatient. I'm ready to go but I don't have any passengers."

"Bruce reckons that about three have gone AWOL. Can't you control your guys?"

"From a couple of miles away?" Virgil retorted. "Besides, I'm only in charge of transportation, not crowd control. That's Bruce's job."

"The poor guy is starting to tear his hair out. He's sent out the big guns, including Uncle Hamish and Mr Harrison."

"I know," Virgil admitted "He told me."

"Hang on… Here's one of them now," Alan said. "That leaves two… No, here's another. With Uncle Hamish. Boy, he's looking mad! I wouldn't want to be in that guy's shoes on Monday." He chuckled. "That leaves one to go. I'd better get on the bus. I don't want to get in the pilot's bad books."

Virgil chuckled. "Okay, Alan. See you soon."

He had made another phone call to reassure himself that the storm hadn't changed course when his mobile rang again. "Hi, Bruce."

"We're on our way, Virgil... at last."

"Who was the problem?"

"Lou. He's found himself a new girlfriend."

"The poor girl. Who is she?"

"One of the grid girls. He wouldn't get on the bus until I said she could come with us. I nearly offered to leave him behind instead."

"He's had a bit to drink, hasn't he?" Virgil asked.

Bruce snorted. "That's an understatement, Virgil. I won't be sitting next to him on the flight back... especially if we're running into rough weather."

"How long before you get here?"

There was a moment's delay as Bruce had a quick conference with the bus's driver. "About ten minutes."

"Okay. See you in ten."

---F-A-B---

Virgil was almost at the stressing stage again when the bus pulled into the car park twenty minutes later. He grabbed Bruce's arm as the latter got off the bus. "What was the holdup?"

"Lou's girlfriend," Bruce said grimly. "She saw a friend of hers and made the driver stop the bus so she could tell the friend to follow in her car so that she'd have a ride back to the track. "Lou's in everyone's bad books now."

Louis Fleming did indeed appear to be unpopular as his workmates passed him by without speaking or looking at him. Not that he cared much; he was too busy enjoying the company of the two girls.

"Okay, everyone," Bruce called. "On the plane and we'll head home. You too, Lou."

"I will," Louis complained. "Just give me a minute to say goodbye to these lovely ladies."

In quick time everyone was on board the turboprop… Everyone except for the errant Lothario, the Tracy brothers and Hamish Mickelson.

"I'm going to have to have words with that young man," Hamish Mickelson growled. "I expect my employees to show more consideration for their colleagues." He turned to Alan. "Do you want to co-pilot?"

Alan was surprised by the request. "Why? Don't you want to?"

"I'm quite happy too if you'd rather relax with your 'fans'." Hamish smiled. "But with this storm bearing down on us, I think Virgil might appreciate the assistance of someone he trusts implicitly."

"I trust you," Virgil protested. "We had a good flight here."

"True, but I think Alan's reflexes are a bit faster than mine. And he's put in a few more flying hours in this type of plane than I have. Also, if I'm in the cabin, I can keep an eye on the potential troublemakers... especially that one over there." He indicated Louis who was standing in the lee of a building with his two new friends. There was a shout of _Lou! Get yourself in here!_ from Bruce in the plane.

"I don't mind," Alan responded. "Do you, Virgil?"

"It doesn't worry me," Virgil replied, and turned when he heard running footsteps.

"I can't get him to move," Bruce puffed. "He might do if he sees he's the last one to board."

"I'll talk to him," Mickelson offered. "Alan's co-piloting," he called over his shoulder as he walked away.

"Thanks, Mr Mickelson…" Bruce responded. "Er…" he eyed Alan up uncertainly. "I suppose asking if you're qualified to fly is a stupid question."

Alan grinned, but it was Virgil who replied. "He's more qualified than me. He _can_ fly a space rocket."

Bruce's jaw dropped. "What?!"

Alan looked a tad embarrassed. "When I was younger I had a habit of launching model rockets..."

"Mainly at faculty buildings," Virgil interrupted.

Alan ignored him. "So Dad signed me up to become an astronaut. That means I've got more qualifications than Virgil, but, if you need the best pilot for a plane, then Virgil's the man."

"No. Scott's the man," Virgil corrected.

"True," Alan agreed. "But he's not here so you're the best we've got."

"Thanks!"

"Any time."

Bruce grinned at the brothers' playful bickering. "I thought you guys were in a hurry! If we want to get Lou on board," the three of them turned to watch Louis, arm around each girl, saunter across the tarmac and then stop to share goodbye kisses, "then we'd better set a good example."

"Okay," Virgil agreed. "But we've got to tell the hire company that Alan's co-piloting. We'll be back in five minutes."

In the airport's office the pair of them made sure that Alan was listed as the co-pilot, rang through the finalised flight plan, and then jogged back to the turboprop... past three people who were blissfully aware of no one except each other.

"Leave him here," Alan suggested as they boarded the plane.

"That's the best idea we've heard all day," Bruce responded. "Lou!" he yelled. "Get your butt in here or we're going without you!!"

It seemed to those on the plane that Louis hadn't heard him.

Alan grinned at Virgil. "Let's 'go without him'."

Virgil grinned back. "No complaints from me." He triggered the plane's motors to life.

At first Louis seemed to be oblivious to the fact that his ride home was apparently deserting him. His colleagues, realising what their two pilots were planning, egged them on.

"Leave him, Virgil."

"C'mon, Alan. Pretend you're in your car and floor it!"

Virgil applied more power and the aeroplane started to taxi towards the airstrip. The change in engine pitch seemed to penetrate Louis' brain and, without a backwards glance, he deserted his girlfriends and sprinted for the aircraft.

"Shut the door, Bruce!"

"Yeah! Don't let him in!"

But Louis had other ideas. He ran for the door, holding his hand out for Bruce to help him inside. Virgil, seeing what was happening and having no desire to cause an accident, slowed down enough so that the running man was able to launch himself into the cabin. Then, timing his actions to perfection, he applied the brakes, sending Louis rolling into a bulkhead. Too embarrassed to look at anyone, the latecomer got to his feet and claimed a solitary window seat.

"I'll make sure the door's shut properly and that everyone's got their safety harnesses done up," Virgil said to Alan. "Back in a minute."

"No worries."

"How close is this storm, Virgil?" Lisa asked as he passed. She sounded worried.

"Far enough away that I doubt you'll need to use the bag in the pouch in front of you." Virgil winked at her and received a relieved smile in reply. He turned to face the rest of his workmates. "Okay, everyone. We'll be doing all we can to ensure a smooth trip, but we may hit some rough patches. Please do not release your seatbelts until we land. Any questions…? Good. Then relax and enjoy the flight." He returned to the flight deck.

He reclaimed his seat as Hamish Mickelson recited his own version of the flight attendant's briefing. "As Virgil said, we are likely to hit some rough patches. For this reason Virgil and Alan are in charge while we're in the air, and everyone is to obey their instructions without question. Anyone caught disobeying them will be subject to disciplinary action at work on Monday." The General Manager glared at Louis who appeared to be more interested in staring longingly out the window at the two beauties giggling by the runway than listening to his boss.

Alan grinned at Virgil as he donned his headphones. "Nice one, Uncle Hamish," he said quietly, the radio link ensuring that his brother was the only person to hear him. "That'll relax them."

Virgil cast his eye over the switches and dials of the control panel. "Final checks done?"

"Final checks all A-OK."

"Thanks. Let's get this baby airborne."

The take-off proceeded smoothly and without incident. As everyone relaxed into the flight they started talking amongst themselves and some of the louder voices filtered through the brothers' headphones.

"Alan Tracy is my pal!" Butch boasted. "He took me around twice!"

Virgil smiled at Alan. "You've made his day."

Alan chuckled. "Yeah, I know. It's an odd feeling, being something special to a bunch of strangers who you've never met before…"

Virgil considered what today must have meant to his little brother. While they were all willing to admit to their pride in Alan and his achievements, the Tracys (perhaps having learnt from their mistakes with Gordon) were unwilling to place the youngest on a pedestal. This, coupled with Alan's self-imposed reluctance to seek the spotlight for International Rescue's sake, meant that he rarely experienced the adulation that many in his position were accorded. The hero-worshiping that he was receiving from Butch and others in the group was a novelty to the young driver.

"Weird, isn't it?" Alan continued. "All I do is drive a car around a track at high speed, and yet that makes me some kind of hero. But I've never done anything special like save a life."

"You brought Gordon back to life," Virgil reminded him.

"I struck it lucky and caught him at the moment when he was about to wake up," Alan countered. "Dangling a hunk of shiny metal in front of someone is not what I would call heroic." He glanced at a brother. "Not like keeping someone alive until the paramedics arrived."

"That wasn't heroic," Virgil rejoined. "Bruce and I were there and we did what we had to do to keep Lisa alive. That wasn't heroics. That was luck and training."

"Butch thinks you're a hero," Alan said. "He was telling me how great you were for saving Lisa's life… in between telling me what a great driver I was..." He frowned. "I told him I won't qualify for the title of 'great' unless I manage to win the championship."

"You'll do it," Virgil soothed. "You had an off day, that's all."

"I hope so." Alan's frown reversed into a smile. "While we were doing the whistle-stop promotional round this week, I managed to stop off and see Gordon." He hesitated and glanced out of the window at the sky. "He seemed pretty down, especially when I said I could only stay five minutes."

"So, what happened?" Virgil asked.

"It was the day of Grandma's big surprise and I was lucky enough to still be there when she got back with Rick and Diane. You should have seen his face light up when the Baileys walked into the room." Alan smiled at the memory. "But Catherine had given him a good workout that morning and he was tired and he couldn't enunciate clearly. He was so bad that even Grandma struggled to understand him. Most of what he was saying sounded like total gibberish. Eventually he got frustrated and typed: "Mouth not working."

"What did Rick and Diane do?"

"Diane started doing the talking for all of them."

Virgil chuckled. "That's a surprise."

"We could all see that Gordon was tired; but he didn't want to admit it. I think he was scared they'd leave if he did, so Diane said that they'd go get some lunch and give him a chance to have a snooze. She promised that they'd come back in an hour and told him they had a couple of days to catch up... I don't think they got away though, when I left Diane was still talking." Alan chuckled. "I doubt Rick managed to say more than two words the entire time I was there. But Gordon loved having them there. I think he's feeling isolated being stuck in that room all day." He looked out the window again. "I don't like the look of that cloud."

"No. Neither do I," Virgil agreed, as he looked at the black stack of cumulous. "I've been watching its progress on the weather radar and I don't think we're going to be far enough south."

"Do you want to change course?"

"If we head any further south we may as well forget about heading home. Not without a refuelling stop to make sure we've got plenty of juice." Virgil flicked a switch. "This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two. Requesting weather update."

"Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two," the radio replied. "The low north of you is deepening and is changing course. Now tracking sou'west. Suggest you turn left to a heading of 202."

Virgil sighed. "Roger that." He finished the radio call. "Right across our path," he mused. "It's going to get rough. If only Louis hadn't held us up!"

"Well, we can't do anything about that now," Alan responded. "Want to warn our passengers?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Virgil agreed. "Do you want to address your fan club?"

Alan chuckled. "It would be my pleasure." He opened the in-plane intercom system. "Hi, Folks. I hope you're all enjoying the flight so far…" there were positive sounds from behind them, "because I am about to give you some bad news. The storm that we were hoping to avoid has moved further south than first expected, so things will probably get a little rough. It's nothing to worry about. If anyone's feeling a little 'under the weather', if you'll excuse the phrase, there are suitable receptacles in the pocket in front of you. Please remain seated and, for your own safety, do not release your safety harnesses. This is Air Tracy, signing out." He turned off the intercom. "It looks angry," he commented as the towering dark clouds rolled closer.

"It is," Virgil responded as he felt the first tremors of air-disturbance through the turboprop's sensitive controls. "And it's moving fast." He felt the plane buck beneath him as he contacted air traffic control. "Am registering wind speeds of 60 knots, increasing. Please confirm."

"Receiving, Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two," the control tower affirmed. "Confirm increasing wind speeds. Low decreasing to one zero two zero kilopascals"

"Roger that." Virgil continued to coax the aeroplane through the blackening skies.

There were some exclamations of concern from the cabin behind when the black clouds swallowed the aeroplane and the first real wind gust hit. All views of the outside world were obliterated by the pelting rain that lashed against the windows.

Alan re-opened the inter-cabin intercom. "As explained earlier we will be experiencing some turbulence. We are trying to gain altitude to get above the worst of the storm. Please remain in your seats and keep your safety harnesses securely fastened at all times. Don't forget that this aircraft is proud owner of one of the highest safety records in the world, partly due to the fact that many of its parts were manufactured by a certain Aeronautical Component Engineering…" He gave a dramatic pause. "So if any bits fall off you've only got yourselves to blame." His comment garnered a nervous laugh from his audience and a wry smile from his brother. "We are perfectly safe. For those of you who like the fairground, imagine that we're going on a roller-coaster… Hopefully without the loop-de-loops," he added as an afterthought, before the aeroplane bucked again and he had to grasp his control yoke with one hand and disconnect the intercom with the other. "It's going to be a wild ride."

"Tell me about it." Virgil was already fighting against the winds that were buffeting them from all sides. Outside, the scene was a horizontal wall of water, occasionally highlighted by a streak of lightning that shot across the sky. "What's our position, Alan?"

Alan checked the reading. "Still heading south."

Virgil released his left hand from its grip on the control yoke and made to flick the radio into life, but aborted the action when the aeroplane lunged to starboard. Regaining his hold on the yoke, his knuckles white, he glanced at his brother. "Radio the tower and see how big they think this storm is." He glanced down at the control panel and then back up out through the nearly useless windscreen as a bolt of lightning flashed in the distance. "Tell them we're flying on instruments, we're at nineteen thousand feet and still climbing, and that we're reading that this storm's at least another ten thousand feet above us."

"Gotcha," Alan acknowledged.

They hit a downdraft and the turboprop dropped sharply, eliciting a little shriek of fear from one of their passengers. An updraft slammed the aeroplane's occupants against their safety restraints before a sideways lurch sent everyone wobbling like marionettes. Someone made a grab for their air-sickness bag and the resulting sounds and smells were enough to send others retching.

"Chocks away," Alan grinned, with the cockiness of one couldn't remember what it was like to be affected by motion-sickness. He triggered the radio into life. "This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two…"

"Go ahead, Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two."

"We are at nineteen thousand feet and climb…"

A blinding flash of light seemed to fill the aeroplane!

"What the…!?" Virgil felt his pulses quicken as the electronic display went blank and then lit up again. A phenomenon that coincided with the engines cutting out. "We've lost power!" He tried to reignite the engines, which proved to be a futile exercise. "We've got _some_ control… But not much."

"This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two," Alan told the radio. "Have lost power to engines."

"Fo... pha... ... ... Two," the radio spluttered. "Ple... ...eat!"

Alan, his frustration mounting, tried again and again to raise the alarm. Eventually he gave up. "That lightning strike must have screwed up the radio!" He pulled the headset off his head. "Now what do we do?" He grasped his control yoke, feeling the aeroplane fighting against him.

"I've set the transponder to squawk 7700..." Virgil replied. "...So, between it and the GPS, aerospace should realise that we're in trouble and have a fix on our position." He freed himself from his own headphones so that he could continue the conversation with his co-pilot. Without the cushioned earmuffs the sounds of wind, rain, and cries of panic from his workmates in the cabin behind him were overwhelming; unlike the engines, which were eerily quiet. "Come on, Baby... Start..."

Alan looked at him, his eyes wide. "Nothing?"

"Nothing... The air intakes must be waterlogged." Virgil gave up on the motors; accepting that the spinning of the propellers were from the forces of the wind and rain, rather than a response to his commands. Battling the control yoke every second, he turned his attention to maintaining their direction. "Use your watch," he ordered, as he fought the bucking aeroplane. "At least Scott can let them know what the problem is."

"Have you got control?" Alan asked, preparing to let go of his yoke.

"Yes..." Virgil gave a grim smile. "...Relatively speaking."

Alan lifted his arm so he could bring his watch up to his face. Immediately the turboprop dipped to the left and he grabbed the control yoke again. "This is a two man job."

"Tell me about it."

"Let's see how sensitive John's made these things... Alan calling Scott..." Alan leant closer to his arm, hoping that his voice would be picked up by the miniature receiver. "Alan calling Scott... I'm not making contact.... Alan calling John... Come in, John..." He glanced at Virgil. "It's not working. You try." He tightened his grip on the yoke. "I've got this."

Virgil twisted his arm so his watch face was uppermost but he still had a firm grip on the controls. "Virgil calling Scott..." He listened without much hope. "Virgil calling John..." And then, just to see if perhaps the watches were sending but not receiving, he tried, "Virgil calling Alan."

"Nope," Alan yelled over the increasing noise of the storm. "Nothing. Cell phone?"

"Use mine; it's been tweaked by John to be able to transmit in flight."

"Give it to me and I'll try," Hamish Mickelson offered, overhearing their conversation. "You boys concentrate on keeping this bird in the air."

"Okay," Virgil glanced at Alan. "Have you got her?"

"Just."

"Good." Using his knees to help brace the controls and moving quickly, Virgil let go of the yoke, pulled his phone from his pocket and held it back over his shoulder.

Hamish loosened his safety harness so he could shift forward in his seat and reached out, just managing to snare the phone with his fingertips. "Got it," he grunted.

"If you can reach someone," Virgil yelled, "tell them we're flying her like a glider," But even as he said the words, they felt the aeroplane begin to lose height and the altimeter started to spin alarmingly.

"Gliders rely on updrafts to remain aloft," Alan reminded his brother. "The winds are all over the place!"

"Then we'll just have to work it."

And work it they did. Using the force of the downdrafts, they attempted to try to keep the aeroplane's forward momentum, dipping her nose just enough so she'd increase her airspeed without losing too much height. Then they'd hit an updraft and would battle to take advantage of its lifting power in an attempt to maintain and even increase their altitude. Then a sideways gust would strike a blow and they'd be fighting not to lose the advantages they'd gained, while praying that they were being blown outwards towards calmer air and not into the raging heart of the storm.

At one point Virgil stole a glance across at his co-pilot and was rewarded by a reassuring wink from his brother. Alan's eyes were bright and he was clearly high on an adrenaline buzz as he fought his second battle of the day: this time a life and death struggle against Mother Nature. Virgil himself felt calm and in control. The gauges seemed bigger, his reflexes quicker, and he felt in tune with what was happening with the aeroplane and the elements outside.

"It's no good," Hamish announced. "I can't get through."

"Keep trying," Virgil instructed.

Hamish Mickelson rechecked that his safety harness was still holding him securely into the seat, and pushed redial on the phone. "Nothing," he grunted.

"Here', Bruce Sanders handed him another phone. "Use mine. I'm on a different network and the airport's programmed in."

"Thanks," Hamish acknowledged, "but normal cell phones can't transmit from the air. Either they don't have a strong enough signal, or else they pick up so many cell phone towers that they get confused."

Max Watts was fidgeting in his seat. He was uncomfortable with the fact that his life appeared to rest in the hands of two people. One, the son of the man he idolised; the other, someone he felt a deep-seated animosity towards. "Are we losing height?"

"I would assume so," Hamish said, trying to keep his voice calm and relaxed. "But not quickly. Everything is under control."

Bruce dropped his phone back into his bag and turned in his seat to check on the other passengers. Their reactions to the situation they all found themselves in seemed to range from calm acceptance; through prayer to each individual's deity of choice; to tears; to yells of hysteria. Many were suffering from varying degrees of air-sickness.

"How are ya, Liesl?" Butch asked; the arm that protectively held his wife stroking her hair.

Lisa, as green as the grass that was so far beneath them and saturated with perspiration derived from illness and fear, was resting her head on his shoulder. She whimpered and hugged her plastic lined bag close, before pulling it open and depositing what remained of her stomach contents into it.

"'Ere," Butch took the bag off her and handed her his one.

She managed to gift him a weak smile. "Thanks."

Bruce turned in his seat and held out a water bottle. "Have something to drink, Lisa."

She shook her head. "Not thirsty."

"No. But we don't want you dehydrating." Bruce handed the bottle to Butch.

"Here, Honey. Just take a sip," Butch cooed, holding the bottle as if he were about to feed a baby. Reluctantly, Lisa complied, but she'd no sooner taken the liquid on board, when her body rejected it again.

"Keep trying," Bruce handed over his air-sickness bag. "But take it slowly." Deciding that humour would help to relieve the tension, he indicated the dead engines. "At least we're not going to run out of fuel," he joked.

"The flip side of that," Hamish reminded him quietly, "is that we're going to be landing with tanks filled with highly explosive avgas."

"So we're in a flying bomb?" Bruce gulped. His face, in stark contrast to his dark hair, turned a pasty white.

The ex-Air Force officer took pity on him. "Powered aircraft are capable of gliding without power," he told the younger man, raising his voice so that those in the passenger cabin could hear him. "Last century, a 747 commercial aircraft flew into a cloud of volcanic ash that had been thrown up by an eruption. The plane lost all four engines and they had to glide for miles before they landed safely. Their pilot had experience in flying gliders, as do the two young men who are controlling this plane now. Trust me, we are in safe hands."

His subordinates and their families hoped that he knew what he was talking about.

"You are talking about the Jakarta incident. Correct, Hamish?" Greg Harrison asked and his boss nodded. "They were able to restart their engines when they escaped the ash. What if we can't?"

Hamish was unable to twist in his seat so that he could glare at his friend for undermining his attempts at reassurance. "Then we will have to make an emergency landing, Greg. Believe me, these two," he indicted the pilots, "are capable of pulling it off safely."

Virgil and Alan had remained largely unaware of what was going on behind them. The weather, and its effects on the aeroplane, was fully occupying their attention.

"Is it me," Alan asked, "or is this storm starting to ease off?"

"I was thinking that," Virgil admitted. The clouds outside seemed to be a lighter shade of black, the winds less ferocious, and the rains more gentle. The turboprop was no longer fighting against them and he flexed his fingers to get the circulation flowing again before pointing the aeroplane upwards again as they reached another updraft. "Our next problem is to find somewhere safe to land."

"And to hope that our brakes work."

"It's not the brakes that concern me." Virgil pointed to a warning light. "The landing gear's jammed... Time to try the engines again. Ready?"

Alan nodded. "Fingers crossed."

There was a hopeful growl followed by a depressing cough as the left engine attempted to restart.

"Nope, not yet," Alan commented. "Is that blue sky I can see?"

"Where?" Virgil peered through the windscreen. "Oh, yeah! That's positive."

They emerged from a bank of cloud into bright sunshine. Suddenly, if you could ignore the fact that you were in a metal cylinder with a natural inclination to end its life in a flaming fireball, the world seemed a better place.

"Hey!" Paul was looking out the window at the landscape that had suddenly opened up beneath him. "Isn't that Aris Hill?" He pointed at a lump in the earth that resembled a landmark of the town some 100 kilometres north of home.

"Yes!" Burt was peering out the window on the other side of the aeroplane. "And that's Lake Olympia!"

Hamish Mickelson fired up Virgil's cell phone again and dialled the number of the emergency services. "I've got through!" he exclaimed. "Ah... Police, please... I think. Our position? Approximately ten thousand feet above Arisville in a crippled aircraft."

"Try the radio, Alan," Virgil instructed.

The younger Tracy already had his headphones on. "I'm through...! This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two. We are without power. Engines are dead. Landing gear is retracted."

"Reading you Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two," Air Traffic Control responded. "Boy, we're glad to hear from you guys. We've been following your progress."

Virgil initiated contact. "Am going to attempt to start engines again." And once again the engines coughed. Yet again they failed. "Engine ignition negative."

"Okay..." There was a pause from air control. "Follow your present course. We'll try to get a visual on you to check the condition of your craft. We've got the Rexton cops out with their binoculars. Any injuries on board?"

"How are things back there?" Virgil called over his shoulder.

"A few sick people, but nothing life threatening," Hamish responded.

"Negative to injuries," Virgil told his phone.

"Good... What's your fuel level?"

"Approximately three quarters full."

Air control made no comment. "Initiating emergency procedures."

"I'll try engine re-ignition one more time. Keep your fingers crossed..." Virgil attempted to fire the motors back into life, but was disappointed by the aeroplane's lack of response. "Negative. Preparing for emergency landing." He made sure that his seatbelt was holding him tightly into the seat, well aware of his vulnerability here at the front of the aeroplane, and that even a centimetre of slack in his harness would triple the G-forces his body would have to withstand on impact.

"You have too much height," air control told them. "You need to reduce altitude by approximately half."

"Great," Alan grumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. "We spend the last hour trying to maintain altitude and now they're telling us we've got to go into a dive."

Virgil ignored him. "Is everyone's safety harness securely fastened?" he yelled back to the passengers. "And seats upright?"

"We're ready, Virgil," Hamish told him.

"Okay, we're going to lose height rapidly. Don't panic, this is part of the landing procedure." Virgil pointed the nose of the turboprop downwards and the aeroplane went into a steep dive. Despite his assurances there were a few screams from the cabin behind him. "Levelling out."

"Good," air control acknowledged. "Adjust your flight path one degree to starboard..." as Virgil made a course correction to the right. "That's good. You are now lined up with runway one five."

"We have visual."

"Keep it steady and keep a clear head. You'll only have one chance at this. Emergency services are standing by."

"Thanks."

The ground grew closer. They could see people working and playing in their backyards, oblivious to the drama that was going on overhead.

"There's ACE," someone exclaimed.

"When we land, do not get out of the crash position or unfasten your seatbelts until the plane has stopped moving," Hamish Mickelson demanded. "Do not panic and do not rush for the exits."

"Get into the crash position," Virgil ordered and heard movement behind him. "Ready, Alan?"

"As I'll ever be," Alan responded. "You?"

"Yep."

Alan grinned at him. "Good luck, Bro. This trip's been a blast."

The airfield was ahead of them; both welcoming and threatening. An ever growing grey ribbon of runway awaited their arrival; like the home straight after a deadly marathon race.

As they drew closer, Virgil raised the nose of the aeroplane slightly so that it wouldn't dig into the tarmac and send them flipping nose over tail to the detriment of all inside. "Nearly there," he informed his passengers. "Touching down in five... four... three... two... _Brace_!"

The bang when they hit the ground was deafening; followed by a brief moment of weightlessness when they became airborne again before making contact with solid concrete for the second and final time. Having no landing gear to keep it upright, the aeroplane keeled over towards port and the turboprop's left wing dug into the ground, disengaging itself from the fuselage.

Now that gravity had been taken out of the equation, friction was the main force acting against the aeroplane. It skidded along what appeared to be an ever shrinking runway, to the accompaniment of the tortured scream of disintegrating metal on concrete. Sparks flew past the passenger windows as the craft slid along the runway, carving up great hunks of tarmac, before slewing off to one side, coming to rest on a well manicured lawn.

His ears ringing from the noise and the concussive effects of the landing, Virgil didn't give himself time to celebrate. "You okay?" he asked Alan as he unbuckled his safety harness; wanting to give himself the chance to recover from the force of the impact, but knowing his job wasn't done.

"Yeah," Alan grunted as he undid his harness. He tried to stand, overbalanced, and fell against the window. He saw smoke writhing around what was left of the wing. "Engine fire!" he gasped. "We've gotta get moving!"

Virgil looked out of the port window, up at the still attached wing that stuck out against the blue sky; its propeller spinning lazily. "We're clear on this side." He willed himself to his feet and, ignoring the bruises forming where his harness had cut into his torso, turned towards the passenger cabin. "You check for injured; I'll get everyone else out."

There was no hesitation from Alan. "Right!"

Virgil charged into the rear cabin, hearing the wail of sirens in the distance and coming closer. "Do not panic. Unfasten your seatbelts. Stay in your seats. Leave your belongings." He grabbed Bruce's arm. "Come with me." Fighting against gravity the two men made their way to the exit door on the higher side of the craft.

Virgil forced the door open and inflated the escape chute. Then he pointed through the door at a small, grey building 150 metres from the aeroplane. "Get everyone behind there and don't let them leave until everyone's accounted for," he ordered.

"Okay." Bruce slid down the chute and ran for the building.

"Back row: you're first. Get up and come here," Virgil instructed, and, dazed, his co-workers complied. "Run for that building... Next row... Follow them..."

Row by row, person by person, the aeroplane was evacuated. On the far side the fire crews fought to stop the engine blaze from taking hold of the craft.

"Up you get, Uncle Hamish," Virgil grunted, pulling on the older man's hand.

"Well done, Son," Hamish congratulated him before jumping onto the chute and sliding down to the ground.

Now there were only four people, including Alan, remaining inside the aeroplane. The first, Louis Fleming, seemed more dazed than the rest had been. Virgil had a sneaking suspicion that that was as much to do with high alcohol consumption as it was a result of the cut on the other man's head. "Come here," he growled and put Louis' arm about his shoulder so he could assist him to the door. It was a struggle, but Louis seemed to awaken enough that he was able to provide some assistance.

They got to the top of the chute and Virgil lowered the red-head so he was in a sitting position. "Slide down there," he commanded and Louis tumbled the length of the chute before coming to rest at the bottom where he lay, groaning. Virgil was about to join him so he could help him to safety, when he realised that an airport staff member was hurrying forward to offer support.

Leaving the drunken man and his new rescuer, Virgil retreated back into the aeroplane.

"Virg! Give us a hand!" Alan yelled. "He won't let me help."

It was Butch and Lisa. Butch had his wife in his arms and was trying to carry her out of the listing aeroplane, but was unable to brace himself against the tilt of the floor.

"I tried to stand," Lisa protested weakly, "but my legs gave out."

"Dehydration," Alan diagnosed. "She's lost a lot of fluids."

"We'll form a chain," Virgil suggested. "Butch, you pass her to me, I'll give her to Alan, and you take Lisa from him. Okay?"

Butch hesitated a moment before nodding and Virgil had the feeling that if it had been anyone other than him making the suggestion the big man would have refused. "Is that okay with you, Lisa?" he asked.

"I just want to get out of here," she complained.

It only took four changes of hands before they got Lisa up to the door. Butch stood there, unable to fit his big frame and his petite wife through the exit.

"Let me past," Virgil suggested. "Now, give her to me, Butch, and you slide down the chute. I won't let Lisa down until you're ready to catch her. Right?"

"Right," Butch grunted and went flying down the slide. "Send 'er down, Virgil."

"Ready?" Virgil asked Lisa.

Lisa gave him a tender smile. "Thank you."

When she reached the bottom, Butch was waiting for her with open arms. Showing no affects of just having been involved in a plane crash, he picked her up and ran for shelter.

"That leaves us, Alan," Virgil said.

"Race ya," Alan sent himself tumbling down the escape chute and took off at a run, Virgil close on his heels.

They joined the rest of their human cargo at the meeting point and leant against the wall of the building; gasping for breath and barely able to respond to the thanks that was being handed out to them.

But even now they weren't allowed to relax. "Boys," Hamish Mickelson said quietly. "The press are here and they want to interview the pilots. You might want to make yourselves scarce."

"Heck." Virgil looked at Alan. "Follow me. We'll head over to the office and enter the back way..."

Virgil had been frequenting the airport all year and knew most of its nooks and crannies. They utilised every bit of cover until they were able to make the final dash through the back door and into the main office complex. Once there they stopped, panting slightly.

They must have made some noise when they'd burst into the building because a member of the airport's staff appeared. "Virgil? What are you doing coming in this way?"

"Avoiding the paparazzi, Sam," Virgil stated. "They're going to want to interview the pilots after our little drama and we want to keep well away from that scene. This is my brother Alan."

"Ah." Sam knew of Virgil's duel identity and was well used to celebrities and other high-fliers wanting to stay out of the limelight. "Hello, Alan." She opened a neighbouring door and looked inside. "This room's clear. Do you want to wait in here? I'll send the air-accident inspector along when he arrives."

Virgil gave her a grateful smile. "Thanks. You know what our father's like over publicity."

Sam chuckled. "I've heard that he hates it. No worries, we're the soul of discretion." She started to walk away.

"Sam!" Virgil called after her. "Would it be all right if we made a phone call? We'll want to let the family know we're okay and I've left my phone on the plane."

"Sure. Not a problem. It'll be some time before the air accident inspector arrives anyway. Make yourselves a coffee."

The brothers entered the room, which appeared to be a staff canteen. Virgil sank into a chair, glad of the chance to relax and reflect on what they'd just done.

Alan, however, was still fizzing. "That was awesome!" he exclaimed, as he gave his brother a high-five. "That was amazing!" He went to sit down, but stood up again as if it were a hot plate and not a thickly upholstered chair. "That was awesome!" he repeated. "I've never felt so _alive_! That was way better than duelling with Victor Gomez." He indulged in a bit of shadow boxing to emphasise his statement. "We were _awesome_!"

Virgil laughed. "We did all right."

"All right? All right!?! If we can do that with that bit of technological history," he indicated the downed late-model plane, "imagine..." his voice grew quieter. "Imagine what we'll be able to do with what Brains has designed. We're a team, Virg!" His voice increased in volume. "And what a team! We're awesome!"

"All right," Virgil agreed. "We're awesome. Now let me make this phone call." He dialled the number of Gordon's room at the Willis Institute and waited. If everyone was in the room, then the videophone in there would ring. If Gordon was undergoing some procedure and the family had retreated to the attached unit, then the call would be re-directed to that phone. A familiar face appeared on the screen. "Hi."

"Hello, Virgil. Had a good day?" Jeff was clearly in Gordon's room and Virgil knew that the rest of the family would be listening in on the conversation.

He smiled. "Alan thinks we've had an awesome one."

Alan put his head in shot. "Hi, Dad. Virgil's right. It's been awesome!"

Jeff chuckled. "Glad to hear it, Alan. Why are you boys ringing?"

"To tell you we're running late. Everyone's okay, but we ran into some rough weather on the trip back. The plane's sustained some damage," Virgil looked out the window to where the turboprop was slouched on the grass, blanketed under an icing of flame-retardant foam, "so we're going to have to deal with all the admin before we can leave."

Jeff's smile had dissolved into a slight frown. "But everyone's okay?"

"Apart from some air sickness and a couple of cuts and bruises, everyone's fine," Virgil reassured him. "We'll tell you all about it when we get there. I'll call when we're finally leaving."

"Okay, Virgil. We'll see you when we see you, and we'll be looking forward to hearing all about the day."

"Bye."

"The plane's_ sustained some damage_?" Alan stared through the window over his brother's shoulder. "She's had it, Virg. She won't be taking to the air any time soon."

"Don't you want to tell them what happened in person?" Virgil asked. "The important thing now is that they know that no one was hurt..." Two air accident inspectors entered the room and he stood to greet them.

The next few hours were taken up with paperwork and interviews. Alan and Virgil were given forms to fill in for the airport, the hire company, the insurance company and the air accident inspector.

"Name..." Alan read out loud before writing in his name on the A.A.I. form. "Occupation..." He thought for a moment. "Test driver."

Virgil looked at him. "Test driver?"

Alan shrugged. "What am I going to put? Rookie race car driver?"

"It's more accurate."

"It's a hobby," Alan said dismissively. "I've realised this afternoon that car racing is only a hobby. It doesn't achieve anything."

Virgil said nothing as he wrote 'Engineer' in his own occupation field.

Part way through their debriefing, Virgil received a videophone call. "Virgil, it's Aunty Edna."

Virgil smiled at the woman. "I can see that."

"Oh," Edna appeared flustered. "Don't mind me. Hamish has just finished telling me what a close call you all had and I want to thank you both for bringing my Scottie Dog home to me." Virgil blinked when he heard his boss's pet-name and hoped that his friend didn't hear Alan try to suppress a laugh. "I was thinking that if you weren't planning on heading off as soon as you've finished there, you might like to join us for a celebratory dinner."

Virgil glanced at his brother who was nodding vigorously. "We'd love to. I'll give you a call when we're about to leave."

She beamed at him. "Good. I'll make sure everything's ready for my two heroes."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It had been a long day when Virgil and Alan finally said goodbye to the Mickelsons and slipped into Virgil's car. But before Virgil started the ignition he looked at his brother. "You've got two choices. Either we head back to the airport and hire an air taxi, or we crash at my place and leave first thing tomorrow morning. Because I'm telling you now, after what we've been through today and that meal I've just eaten, there's no way I'm going to attempt flying a plane tonight."

"What happened to getting straight back into the saddle?" Alan grinned.

"Too saddle sore."

Alan laughed. "Then I vote for your place. The way I'm feeling, if you were to nod off mid-flight, I'd probably be sound asleep and wouldn't notice when we crashed and burned. After all the hard work we did today, I'd hate for it to end up like that."

Virgil laughed and put the car into gear.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

He woke early the following morning. Alan, snoring gently on the airbed on the floor, didn't move as he tip-toed past and into the bathroom. Once there he began to prepare himself for the day, including some time under hot running water to remove all traces of stiffness. When he felt sufficiently supple, he stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the mirror to examine the damage. He had bruises down his front that were a perfect imprint of the turboprop's safety harness. If he'd painted them on his torso he couldn't have made them clearer.

Showing his usual lack of respect for his brothers' privacy, Alan burst into the bathroom. He pulled up short and winced when he saw Virgil. "Ouch. No wonder I'm feeling sore." Pulling his own shirt off, he examined an identical set of marks on his body. "Makes you realise how lucky we were."

"Yeah," Virgil agreed. "If you want to have a shower, I'll get breakfast ready."

Alan grinned. "Okay, Grandma," he joked.

"If I was Grandma, I'd ask you what you want for breakfast," Virgil rejoined. "But since it's only me, you'll get what you're given."

"Aww." Alan treated him to a playful pout. "I was hoping for Eggs Benedict."

"I haven't got any eggs, and don't call me Benedict." Virgil left the bathroom to the sound of Alan's surprised laughter.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The flight back to the hospital was considerably less stressful than the one from ACE's outing had been, and it was a cheerful Virgil and Alan who walked into Gordon's room at the Willis Institute.

"Ah. Here are our wanderers," Jeff greeted them.

Grandma accepted Alan's kiss. "Congratulations on winning your race, Darling."

"Heck, I'd forgotten all about that," Alan said. "It seems years ago."

Scott's face was expressionless. "Good flight?"

"Great," Virgil replied. "We had a tail wind and blue skies the whole way."

"Med a geng fwom yusdadees?"

Virgil looked at Gordon. His brother's lopsided face was as unreadable as his sentence had been unintelligible.

"You gave ACE a day to remember?" John asked.

Alan leant back. "I think you could say that."

"We're curious, fellas," Scott drawled. "Just what damage _did_ your plane sustain?"

Virgil stared at him. There was something in the way that his brother had said that, that rang alarm bells. "Who have you been talking to?"

"No one," Scott responded. "And we're glad to see that you two haven't either."

Virgil and Alan looked at each other. "Huh?"

In one swift movement four different newspapers were produced and placed on Gordon's bed. Numb, Virgil picked his grandmother's copy up: _Billionaire's son in mid-air drama_. "I knew the press was there when we landed, but... Where'd you get all these?"

"One of the nursing staff," Jeff explained. "She said to me _you must be proud of your sons, Mr Tracy_ and of course I didn't have a clue what she was talking about. I thought she might have been meaning how well Gordon's progressing and that she admired the way that Scott and John are helping him; but never in my wildest dreams did I think that she meant you two! When I realised who she was talking about I did what any man in my position would do..." He gave a wicked smile. "I lied and said I was." His mother chuckled. "Then she said to me that she thought I'd like copies of the papers that had run the news." He indicated a newspaper. "It wasn't until I saw the headlines that anything made sense."

Alan was reading the article headed: _Race Ace saves A.C.E._ "Hey! This isn't fair. They've given me all the credit, but Virgil was the pilot and he barely gets a mention!"

Virgil was reading a paper headed: _Aeronautical Component Engineering test flies own plane _and looked up. "It doesn't matter, Alan. You're the one in the public eye, so you're the one who's news…"

"While you're the one who did all the work… The A.A.I. was pretty hard on you too."

Virgil gave an unconcerned shrug. "He was only doing his job; which was making sure that I'd done mine. He had to convince himself that it wasn't pilot error."

"We were hit by lightning," Alan rejoined. "Any idiot could tell that. And the intakes were probably drowned. There's no way anyone could blame you."

"Any web rash?" Scott received twin bemused looks in reply and elucidated. "Bruising from your safety harnesses."

"Oh, yeah," Alan confirmed. "From there to there." He drew a pattern on his body.

"Tell us what happened." Jeff picked up a newspaper. "And we want the real story, not the media's version of it."

Virgil let Alan tell the story, only interrupting when the younger man's enthusiasm carried him away. "We tried to reach you on our watches," Alan claimed. "But they didn't work."

"Really?" John frowned. "That's interesting. I'll have to do some experiments to see if I can replicate the conditions. Of course, once number five is airborne and able to boost the signal, it might cease to be an issue."

"So," Scott began, "Let's see if I've got this straight. You've just flown through the storm of the century..."

"Hardly that," Virgil interrupted.

"You lose power to the engines..."

Alan nodded. "Yup."

"You crash land, and I might add that I'm impressed with how well you did," Scott indicated a photograph. "Then you risk getting caught in any resulting explosions from two tanks full of fuel as you get everyone out safely..."

Alan nodded. "Uh huh."

"And yet you only see fit to tell us that the plane _sustained some damage_?"

Alan barked out a laugh and nudged Virgil. "I told you you'd understated things."

Virgil shrugged. "We wanted to have something to talk about when we got here and didn't want you guys worrying when there was nothing to worry about."

Scott stared at him. "You didn't want us to worry?"

"Yeah. Everyone was okay. At that point Alan and I were planning on leaving for the Willis Institute as soon as the A.A.I. had finished with us. It was later that Aunty Edna rang and asked if we wanted to go round for dinner."

"I'd never turn down an invitation like that." Alan smacked his lips and then snickered. "She wanted to thank us for saving her _Scotty Dog_."

Virgil ignored him. "I didn't think we'd rate as headline news. Besides, if it hadn't been for the nurse giving you those papers you wouldn't have known until now."

For some reason Scott wasn't prepared to let up on his questioning. "So you hadn't planned on telling us your story when you rang to say that you weren't travelling until today?"

"No," Virgil stated. "After everything that had happened and Aunty Edna's dinner, we were too tired to even think about making long phone calls. We went back to my place and crashed. Right, Alan?"

"Right. That made twice in one day."

"And this morning? Before you left? You didn't think of giving us prior notice about what you'd been up to?"

Virgil frowned. "No. Why would we? We wanted to get here as soon as possible so we could tell you in person. We got up, got washed, had breakfast and left."

"You both could have been killed. Not to mention most of ACE's workforce, including Uncle Hamish. And you didn't think of giving us advance warning during the flight here?"

"No," Virgil was becoming slightly exasperated by his brother's persistence. "Honest, Scott..."

"Honest, Scott...?" Scott's eyebrow shot skywards. "Isn't that the code to make someone eat his words?" He smirked.

Gordon looked between his brothers. "Fwad?"

"And I'm told," Scott continued, "that this is just the thing to help you do it." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it onto the bed. John started laughing.

Virgil sat back. "Oh." A wry smile crossed his face.

Gordon stared at his eldest brother. "Fwad??"

"Do you think it'll fit, Virgil?"

"No, because we are talking about totally different circumstances. I didn't hide anything... unlike you."

"Apart from a trashed puddle-jumper."

Gordon, frustrated at being ignored, banged his good arm on the bed to get their attention. "Fwad r yi dalcin 'boud?!!"

Everyone looked at him, suddenly realising that the person who had been at the centre of the original drama had no knowledge of what they were talking about.

"When you were in the drug induced coma," Jeff began, "and had the epidural hematoma, we, for some unfathomable reason which seemed to be a good idea at the time, decided that it would be in Virgil and Alan's best interests if we didn't tell them until they'd finished work for the day."

"Yi did fwad?"

"You gave us a fright," his father explained. "We weren't thinking straight."

"Mount Virgilvious over here went volcanic when I finally told him." Scott's smile was rueful. "He'd been calling us every meal break and we'd been brushing him off with half-truths."

"Half-truths and downright lies." Virgil corrected. "When Scott eventually got around to telling me that you'd had _a few problems._.."

"A fu pwubem?"

"That was his words, right before he told me that you'd nearly died. Remember, Scott?"

Scott looked suitably abashed. "I remember," he muttered.

"So you should. When I got fed up with Scott patronising me..."

"I wasn't patronising you."

"Yes, you were!"

"Virgil! I was not patronising you!"

"Anyone who manages to squeeze twenty _honest, Virgs_, into a two minute conversation, is patronising."

"Twenty? Two minutes?"

"Oh, all right then," Virgil grumbled. "Ten into five."

John laughed. "We're still waiting, Virgil. Just give me advance warning of when you're planning on enacting your punishment so I can have my camera ready."

Gordon shifted his head so he could look at him. "Fwad?"

"It sounds better coming from Virgil."

Gordon rotated his head the other way. "Fwad, Brrchil?"

"I told Scott that if he said _honest, Virg_ one more time I'd fly straight to Marineville and ram his phone down his throat."

A slow smile twisted Gordon's face. "Ya did fwad?"

"Offered to make him eat his words."

"With this," Scott held up the innocent article.

"We've all asked for front row seats when it happens," Alan added.

"Okay, fine... So what happened yesterday is totally different to what happened two months ago." Scott pointed at the photograph of the downed plane again. "But, Virgil, you might call that damage. Most sane people would call that a wreck."

Virgil shrugged. "It's a wreck we walked away from."

"Not all," John indicated a photo of Butch carrying Lisa.

"She was dehydrated," Alan responded. "She was vomiting throughout the flight."

"She is not a good traveller," Virgil confirmed. "I would have given the Crumps a ring this morning to see how she was, but we left too early."

Alan snickered. "I think Virgil's sweet on her." His face took on a wistful expression. "Though when you see her, you can't blame him."

Virgil was indignant. "Lisa's a happily married woman!"

"Ah ha!" John crowed. "Notice he hasn't denied the accusation. I think we're on to something!"

"You know, I think Alan's right," Scott agreed. "Look at this photo of you holding her." He held up his paper, pointing to a long-shot, slightly out of focus, photo of someone, obviously Virgil to those who knew him, carrying a woman at the top of the aeroplane's evacuation chute.

"I was holding her until Butch," Virgil pointed to the figure at the bottom of the chute, "was in position to catch her!"

Scott examined the photograph. "You don't look like you're in any hurry to let go."

"You can't pass judgement based on one photograph!" Virgil felt his cheeks grow hot. "She's a friend!"

"Sure..." John's smirk spoke volumes.

"A friend who's been in Virgil's bed," Grandma reminded everyone.

Virgil stared at her, not quite able to work out whether she was siding with his brothers in teasing him, or whether she was stirring them up on his behalf. Despite this, he felt a kind of perverse pleasure in seeing the frustrated glances pass between his siblings.

"Yeah, that's right!" Scott pounced. "Explain that away!"

"I know Butch has been in his bed too," Grandma continued, smiling sweetly as if this was something every grandmother would be proud of.

This shut Virgil's brothers up and even caused Jeff to sit forward. "What!"

"Grandma!" Virgil protested.

"Of course that was a different time…" Grandma continued on as if she hadn't heard him, "to when I found Lisa and Virgil alone in Virgil's apartment… And Lisa was naked…"

All eyes turned to Virgil and he felt his temperature increase a few degrees.

"…And Virgil was only half dressed." Grandma winked at her grandson.

"'Alv dwessd? Ni fwae!"

"No way's right," John agreed with Gordon. "Not Mr Square. Some day you are going to have to tell us everything, Virg."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do," Scott retorted. "You can't tell us that you've had Butch in your bed, Lisa wandering naked around your apartment..."

"While you're half naked," Alan interrupted.

"...and not give us the full facts," Scott finished.

"I haven't told you anything. Blame Grandma."

Scott pretended to be astonished by the suggestion. "What? Blame this dear, sweet, innocent old lady?"

He ducked a cuff about the ear. "Less of the 'old', young man."

"Come on, Virgil, spill the beans," John pleaded. "What happened? Was it some kind of ménage-a-trois? You, Lisa and Butch."

"No!"

"So you're saying that Butch found Virgil and Lisa together in his apartment and exacted his revenge," Scott chuckled. "That sounds plausible."

"It sounds a bit too kinky to me," Alan snickered again. "For Virgil anyway."

"Fwad di yi ding den?" Gordon asked.

"What do I think...? Umm..." Alan thought. "Maybe that's how Virgil got beaten up? Not by the Skulz; but by Butch!"

"Fwad 'boud di bideo?"

"The video? It had to be a fake. It was too good to be real. How else could they have caught every action on screen? No… I'll wager anything you like that…"

"What is this?!" Virgil exploded. "Pick on Virgil Tancy day...? I mean... Tracy! Virgil Tracy..." He made an exasperated sound and threw his hands up in the air. "You've got me so wound-up that I don't know who I am anymore!" He folded his arms in a huff, slouched back in his seat, and glowered at the floor; more annoyed with himself for letting his family get under his skin than he was with them.

They were silent; realising that they'd made the rare mistake of overstepping the mark. "Sorry, Virgil," Scott muttered and their brothers echoed the apology.

"You guys shouldn't be teasing Virgil anyway!" Alan demanded, conveniently forgetting that he'd been enjoying the sport as much as the others. "Not after yesterday. You should have seen him, Dad! He was awesome!" he added, reverting back to his word of the week. "We'd just lost the engines, I'm sweating bullets and wondering what we're going to do next, and Virgil, calm as they come, says _we're going to work it_. And we did! No fuss. No doubts. No recriminations. No fear. No worries."

Virgil shifted in his seat, as uncomfortable with the praise as he was with the teasing. "Shut up, Alan," he muttered.

But Alan ignored him. "And then when we'd landed, he took charge. He was barking out orders left right and centre and demanding total control. No one questioned him, not even Uncle Hamish. They just did what they were told." He grinned at his eldest brother. "You've got a potential pretender to your throne here, Scott."

Scott was enjoying hearing one brother praise another. "Was he that good?"

"Good? He was awesome!" Alan turned to his father. "The papers may have focused on me, but that's because my name's known and I'm your son. Virgil was the real hero. You should be proud of him, Dad!"

Jeff smiled at his youngest son before moving his attention to Alan's object of admiration. "I am, Alan. I'm proud of both of you... and I don't need a nurse here to prompt me to say that."

"But it wouldn't hurt so we can get those guys' heads back down to size," John chuckled.

Scott grinned. "We could always use the Virgil Tracy method of discipline to shut Alan up." He picked his phone onto the bed and put it back into his pocket.

"You'd look sick if he did."

"Not as sick as Alan would."

Gordon laughed. His laugh caught his throat and he started coughing. Unable to stop, and without the manual dexterity to cover his mouth, he had to rely on his grandmother to hold a tissue in front of his face.

"I'll call the nurse," Jeff offered as it became obvious that his son was unable to catch his breath.

Moments after he'd pushed the button, an efficient woman came bustling into the room. "That doesn't sound too good," she said to the gasping invalid. "Would you like some oxygen?" Not waiting for an answer to her rhetorical question, she reached up and pulled the oxygen mask from its position above his bed.

"Rest, Gordon," Jeff patted his son on the arm. "We'll wait in the other room." He led the way into the accompanying unit and the family squeezed themselves, as best they could, into the tiny living area. He and his mother claimed the two chairs, while his sons perched wherever they found a space big and strong enough to support them.

Grandma looked at the tissue in her hand. "He's coughing up blood again."

"What!" Virgil stated at the innocuous piece of paper as it was discarded into a bin. "Blood?"

"Is something wrong with his lung?" Alan sounded as anxious as Virgil felt. "Has the wound opened up again? He's been so well, relatively speaking, that I'd all but forgotten about his other injuries."

Virgil agreed. Gordon's paralysis was so "in your face" that it was easy to forget that he'd been inflicted with other life threatening injuries. Not for the first time he cursed his absence from the hospital.

"No, everything else is completely healed," Jeff informed them. "It's a minor lung infection and he's nearly over it. We've worn him out this morning."

"Oh... Good..." But still Virgil didn't feel like he could relax. "Did they say what's caused it?"

"Lying around too much. His lungs aren't able to expand fully," John explained. "We're going to have to get him out of that bed."

"We can't do that until the infection's cleared up," his father reminded him.

Scott, sitting on the floor, leant back against the wall and pushed his hand through his hair. "How much longer are we going to have to keep doing this?"

Jeff looked sharply at him. "What?"

"How much longer is Gordon going to be trapped in that bed? At what point do we have to accept that this is it and it's time to get on with our lives."

Jeff gave him a look that chilled the room. "When Gordon's better."

"But what if he's not going to get better? He hasn't improved in weeks. What if this is as good as it's going to get? What do we do if this afternoon Mr Millington tells us that it's time to go home and set things up so that Gordon can live as full a life as it's possible for him to live?"

Jeff's expression was even colder. "Does this mean you don't want to be here?"

The rest of the family were silent as they watched the verbal tug-o-war.

"No!" Scott protested. "There's no way I'm going to bail until Gordon can leave the institute. But... at the moment you've got to admit that it's as if he's giving up... Physically and mentally."

"Scott..." Jeff growled.

Scott was nothing if not tenacious. "Take this lung infection. His original injuries have all healed well, and he was fine a few weeks ago. Then he's hit by the infection and he seems to go backwards; as if his body's giving up." He sat forward. "I want him to get better," he insisted. "But I'm sure you must have noticed that he's not trying as hard. Remember when he was training? The coach would tell him that the session was over, but Gordon will still turn and do another lap. A month ago when his therapists would tell him that he'd done enough for the day, he'd still attempt one more exercise... But not now. Now he gives up before the session has finished..."

Jeff rolled his eyes skyward. "Give me strength," he muttered.

"It's as if he's lost the will to fight," John commented.

"Yes." Thankful for the support, Scott gave his brother a grateful glance. "It's not something we can ignore, Father!" he insisted. "We have to start preparing ourselves. Up here if nowhere else," he tapped his head.

"Scott!" Jeff barked and he shot daggers at his eldest son. "Gordon – will – get – better."

"I hope you're right, but look at what it's doing to the rest of us in the meantime. We're in limbo."

Jeff's face was growing red and Virgil hoped he wasn't about to burst a blood vessel.

"Scott's right," John agreed. "We're tied to this hospital and everything's on hold. None of us have got a normal life."

He wilted under a baleful glare. "Especially Gordon, John. I expect you to remember that."

"I can't forget it," John replied. "But at the moment all I have... all _we_ have is the house and this hospital..." At a look from his father he added hastily, "I'm not complaining. But look at Alan and Virgil." Alan paled when his name was mentioned and Virgil wondered if he should comment before deciding to maintain his silence. "They're either working or here. What kind of a life is that for a young man? What is that doing to Alan's chances of winning the world championship?"

"At least they get a break away," Scott continued. He indicated the older members of the family. "None of us do... And what about International Rescue?"

"What about it?" Jeff growled.

"That's been your dream for years, but you haven't even contacted Brains to see how he's getting on. The poor guy's stuck on the island; slaving away with no help!"

"Brains works better alone."

"But there are some things that can't be done alone. Height work for example. The ships are never going to get assembled while we're half a world away. Think of the lives that could be lost."

John fired home the killer punch. "It might have been Virgil and Alan's yesterday."

Jeff stood, his hands clenched into fists in rage. "We are NOT leaving here until Gordon is one hundred percent fit! And I expect you all to remember that!" He stormed out through the door leading into Gordon's room.

The unit was silent as the family contemplated the words that had been said, and Virgil realised that there was one major difference between this altercation and yesterday's dramas…

Now he was scared.

_To be continued..._


	17. A Quiet Commemoration

**17: A Quiet Commemoration**

Virgil put the last of his breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and shut the door. It was Tuesday morning and he was still feeling a sense of disquiet over Scott and John's Sunday discussion with their father. Even when he'd left for home yesterday evening, he could feel the tension between his brothers and Jeff. It was something that the family wasn't used to and it worried him.

Gordon had sensed it too and had realised that whatever the altercation had been, it had been about him. When they were alone he'd tried to ask Virgil what was wrong and Virgil had pretended to misunderstand him, leaving Gordon frustrated and Virgil feeling guilty.

No one had asked Virgil his thoughts on the subject, for which he was profoundly grateful. But if they had he would have replied that he wasn't at the Willis Institute often enough and long enough to be able to give an informed answer. That was another lie. He could see that, even after a month and a half, Gordon wasn't improving. He could understand Scott and John's desire to discuss Gordon's future and what it meant for the family. And he could relate to his father's need to never give up until Gordon was one hundred percent fit…

Even if it was obvious that that wasn't going to happen.

The realisation hit Virgil like a ton of bricks, and he leant against the kitchen counter to regain his equilibrium. What was life going to be like now with a helpless Gordon having to rely on everyone else for every tiny little thing? What would it mean for Gordon? What would it mean to the family? What would it mean for International Rescue? Would International Rescue even be able to operate without a dedicated aquanaut and co-pilot for Thunderbird Two? Was this the end of all their plans…?

The doorbell rang.

Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the door and opened it, revealing Butch and Lisa Crump. "Hi."

Lisa threw her arms about him in a warm embrace. "Thank you, Virgil!"

Virgil found himself wishing that he could hang onto her until all his problems disappeared. Instead he gave her a quick squeeze and then let go. "That was an unexpected welcome."

Butch shook his hand. "We want'd t' say thank you… face-to-face like."

"Yes." Lisa smiled. "And so we decided to catch you before work. I think you're going to find yourself mobbed by everyone."

"I hope not." Virgil stepped aside. "Come in." The Crumps complied, and he shut the door behind them. "I didn't do anything particularly special."

"Not special!" Butch exclaimed. "Get a load of this guy. He saves all our lives an' he says it's not special!"

Virgil shrugged. "I just did what had to be done."

"There're a lot of people at ACE who think you're special," Lisa informed him. "So you'd better get used to the idea."

"How are you guys?" Virgil asked, trying to turn the conversation away from him. "Survived Saturday okay?"

"After a good long sleep," Lisa laughed. "Right, Honey?" she asked Butch.

"Yeah," he responded. "An' a good long drink."

"That's another reason why we're here early; to apologise," Lisa explained. "We put you in danger."

"I'd been in danger since the engines stopped," Virgil replied. "Helping you two out didn't make much difference."

"Yes, it did. You and Alan had every right to leave us in there and save yourselves."

"Yeah," Butch agreed and hung his head. "Since I wouldn' let Alan help me."

"And we would never have forgiven ourselves," Virgil said. "Don't worry about it," he added, hoping that was going to be the end of the conversation. "It's all in the past and it's time to move on."

"You might find that difficult," Lisa told him. "There was only one topic of discussion at work yesterday and our little drama's been in all the papers."

"I know," Virgil admitted. "We didn't get to the hospital until Sunday morning, hoping to reveal the gory details when we got there, and discovered that the papers had already stolen our thunder."

"Papers…" Butch grumbled. "You'd think they'd get their facts righ'."

Virgil managed a wry smile. "Have you ever known a newspaper article to be totally correct?"

"Yeah, bu' you'd think they could at least get who you was righ'. They called you Virgil Tracy, not Virgil Tancy. _And_ they said you was Mr Tracy's son."

"Oh…" Virgil looked at Lisa. "You haven't told him yet?"

"No…" Lisa laid a hand on her husband's arm. "Virgil _is_ Mr Tracy's son, Butch."

Butch stared at her. "Wha'?"

"Jeff Tracy's my father," Virgil admitted.

There was a moment as their words sunk into his brain. Then Butch let out a cry of pleasure and wrapped his arms about Virgil in a less welcome bear hug; lifting him off the ground. "Tha's great!"

Virgil's bruises started to complain at the unexpected pressure and he felt as if the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. "Put me down, Butch!"

Butch let go; stepping back with an excited grin splitting his face. "'Ow long 'ave ya known?"

"Er…" Virgil had always suspected that Butch wasn't the sharpest tool in the factory and this seemed to have confirmed it. "All my life."

"Huh…? Oh…" Butch looked embarrassed. "I thought ya might 'ave been adopted as a kid or somethin' and only jus' found out."

Now Virgil understood. "No, I didn't want to be treated differently to anyone else, so most people at ACE don't know my real name. Only you, Bruce, Louis, Greg, Uncle Hamish… I mean Mr Mickelson, and the doctor. Lisa guessed last week."

"That's my girl," Butch said proudly.

"So you've got to keep it a secret, Honey," Lisa said. "For Virgil's sake."

"Sure." Butch grinned. "Anything for my pal." He treated Virgil to an affectionate punch on the shoulder; the force of which sent him staggering back against the kitchen bench.

Virgil rubbed his shoulder.

"You seem a little down," Lisa noted. "How is Gordon?"

Virgil made a non-committal gesture. "Could be better."

Butch scratched his head. "Is he Mr Tracy's son who was in th' accident?"

"Yes." Virgil nodded. "I've been going to see him at the hospital every weekend."

Butch looked concerned. "It's serious?"

"Apart from limited movement in his right arm and face, he's fully paralysed."

"Oh…" Butch looked downcast. "'Ow's Mr Tracy copin'?

Virgil was surprised. Butch always seemed to be such a hard character, so much so that even those who knew him tended to forget that he was as soft as marshmallow inside. "He's…" Virgil leant against the bench and tried to think of a suitable answer. "Up till the weekend I would have said he was coping… But now I think the stress is getting to him…" He looked at his hands, adding, without thinking: "It's getting to all of us."

"Oh! I am so sorry!" And Virgil found himself wrapped up in another of Lisa's embraces.

He accepted it gratefully and hung on. "I hate to admit it," he said when she let go, "but I think I needed that. Thanks for letting me borrow your wife for a moment, Butch."

The big man gave a goofy grin. "Afta wha' you did for us, seems th' least we can do."

Virgil looked at his watch. "I guess we'd better head off to work." He smiled at his friends. "I'd suggest that we take the Red Arrow, but we don't want the rabble scratching it, do we?"

Butch guffawed. "I always knew ya was a man after m' own heart."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

When they arrived at ACE, they were met by a beaming Bruce Sanders. "Virgil! I never got the chance to say thanks for getting us safely there… and back. Are you sure you don't list saving lives as one of your hobbies?" Virgil laughed. "You and Alan disappeared so quickly that I almost didn't mark you off the list."

"Uncle Hamish warned us that the media were about," Virgil said. "He knew that Alan and I would want to keep a low profile."

"By disappointing the 'gentlemen of the press'," Bruce grinned. "Everyone else was keen to tell their tales, but they wanted to talk to the man of the hour: you."

"It was a family effort, remember," Virgil reminded him.

"Ah… Virgil…" Bruce glanced at Butch.

"It's okay, Bruce. Butch knows my real identity. It's a relief to tell him."

"I'll bet." Bruce grinned. "The rate you're going you'll have told everyone by the time you leave here."

"That," Virgil admitted as they walked towards the building, "is still an option. I haven't decided if I will or won't yet... Did Louis show his face yesterday?"

Bruce nodded. "To his credit, yes, he did. But he was not popular."

"Didn't think 'e had it in 'im," Butch growled.

Lisa giggled. "I think he'd decided that the crash was a hallucination brought about by his hangover."

"Watts banished him to the linisher all day," Bruce snickered. "Everyone else has been giving him the cold shoulder."

They entered the factory, intent on heading to the locker rooms to get their overalls, when it suddenly seemed to Virgil as if every employee of ACE swooped down on him.

"Ah, here's the man we've been waiting to see."

"How are you, Virgil?"

"You disappeared so quickly, I didn't get the chance to say thanks."

"We owe you our lives."

"Are you all right, Virgil?" one of the female staff members laid her hand gently on Virgil's arm. "We didn't see you after we landed and you weren't here yesterday."

He gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm okay. I'd always planned on having yesterday off." He laughed. "I can't survive a full week at work without at least two full days away from you guys."

A parcel was pressed into his hands. "This isn't much, but it's to say thank you."

"I'm not expecting any thanks," Virgil protested. "I was trying to save my skin as well, remember. The only other option was to grab a parachute and jump, which, considering the weather, was probably just as suicidal as staying with you in the plane and doing nothing… Besides, it was a team effort! Alan helped with the flying; Mr Mickelson tried to raise the alarm on the phone; and Bruce corralled you all together until the plane had been cleared. Like I said, it was a team effort."

"Maybe," Greg Harrison conceded, "but you were the one who flew us safely back home. And we are all indebted to you."

A throat was cleared. "Mr Tancy."

Virgil turned and found himself face-to-face with one of the supervisors. "Mr Watts?"

"I... ah... That is..." Watts fixed his attention on his subordinates about them. "Mr Mickelson has called a staff meeting. I think you had better all start heading over to the lunchroom."

There was a general muttering as most of the crowd drifted away.

When they'd gone, Max Watts appeared to try to steel himself. "Mr Tancy... ah, Virgil..." He gave an ingratiating smile. "My wife and I... Um... I mean..." He took a deep breath. "What Alan Tracy and... and you... did... Well..." he was struggled on. "That is... We here at ACE are... uh... grateful... ah... for," he gritted his teeth, "what you did on Saturday. Will you be seeing Alan Tracy again soon?"

Virgil tried not to smirk as he listened to the stammered, uncomfortable, attempt at thanks. "I should be seeing Alan sometime within the next two weeks."

In that case, Max Watts plastered another ingratiating smile on his face. "Will you tell Alan Tracy that I would like to say thank you to him for... for his part in saving our lives?"

Virgil nodded. "I would be glad to."

Satisfied that he'd done his duty and observed the formalities, Watts looked at his watch. "Mr Mickelson is holding a meeting in the lunchroom in two minutes time. Do not be late." The last order was said with a pointed look at Virgil, before he turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the offices.

Bruce laughed. "I'll bet that stuck in his craw; having to say thank you to Virgil Tancy."

"I can't wait t' see his face when you tell 'im who ya are," Butch stated.

"And please, please, _please_ make sure we're there to see his reaction when you do," Bruce begged. "He'll probably keel over in a dead faint and I'll want to be there to drop… I mean, catch him."

They were one of the last groups to enter the lunchroom, and Virgil's arrival was heralded by hushed whispers, which continued as they made their way to their usual table in the back of the room.

"All hail the mighty hero," Bruce teased as he claimed his seat.

"Shut up, Bruce," Virgil muttered. He was discovering that his desire to shun the limelight was not only a response to his father's wishes and International Rescue's needs. He was feeling increasingly embarrassed by the continued attention and this, coupled with the lunchroom's over generous heating system, was causing him to break out in a sweat. In an attempt to cool down he removed his sweatshirt.

"Are you trying to put us mere mortals to shame?" Bruce asked.

Virgil stared at him. "Huh?"

"Look at you!" Bruce indicated Virgil's toned, t-shirt clad torso. "You've got every woman in the place drooling now."

"What!" Virgil looked over to where a group of his female co-workers were regarding him with the kind of star-struck stares that teenagers normally reserved for their movie idols. Ashamed at being caught out, they blushed and looked away. "I don't believe it."

"Face it, Virgil," Lisa told him. "At the moment you're every girl's dream boy."

"And Winston's," Bruce snickered as Butch snuffled a laugh.

"Shush, Bruce. I'm serious!" Lisa scolded and turned her attention back to Virgil. "Don't look so surprised. You're heroic, brave, intelligent, sweet, caring, thoughtful, artistic, practical…" as Bruce gagged and Virgil felt his embarrassment quotient rising, she gave a wicked grin and raked her eyes over his body, "you're pretty good eye-candy to boot." She laughed at the shocked chorus of "Lisa!" from her victim and her husband.

Bruce nearly fell off his chair in laughter. "If you could only see your faces."

"That's it. I don't care if feel as if I've fallen into the crucible furnace…" Virgil pulled his sweatshirt off the back of his chair, "I'm putting my shirt back on."

Bruce stopped him; pushing the garment down onto the table. "Before you do, let's try a little experiment."

Wary, Virgil looked at him. "Experiment? What experiment?"

"The reaction of the feminine quarter to the exposure and contraction of the masculine soft tissue linked to rigid calcium structures designed for the daily manipulation of various implements."

Butch stared at him and even Virgil had trouble interpreting the statement. "What?"

"Show the girls your biceps and let's see what happens."

"No way!" Virgil exclaimed.

"Come on, Virgil," Bruce cajoled. "It's only a bit of fun."

"No," Virgil stated. "This is ACE's canteen, not a singles club."

"You don't have to date them, just see what reaction you get." Undaunted, Bruce thought briefly. "What if we all did it?" he asked. "We'll make it a competition, and Lisa can judge who, out of the three of us, has got the biggest biceps. And, since there's no way I'm going to win, I feel quite safe in suggesting that the prize for the winner is a kiss from the judge... Deal?"

"No."

"Are you willing to be the judge, Lisa?"

She was delving into her pockets, trying to find something she could measure with. "The chance to compare a bit of muscle? Just try and stop me." She gave up, tore a long strip of paper off a nearby newspaper, and picked up a pen. "I'm ready."

"Butch?"

Butch, assured of winning first prize, grinned and nodded. "Sure."

"That leaves you, Virgil." Bruce started rolling up the sleeve of his overalls. "It'll help kill some time until Mr Mickelson gets here."

Virgil looked at his watch. "What's holding him up? I could have gone into the locker room, put my overalls on, and been back by now."

"Be a sport, Virgil," Lisa begged. "It's not as if we're forcing you to parade around wearing nothing but a towel."

"I would like to point out, Lisa, that I never asked _you_ to parade around wearing nothing but a towel. I only caught you because of poor timing on both our parts."

"You was lucky it was ya, Virgil," Butch said. "Anyone else woulda been dead." He punched his fist into his hand for emphasis.

"The way you hit me, I thought I _was_ dead!" Virgil remembered.

Bruce's redirected their attention back to his original theme. "Let's get this experiment over and done with." He did a bicep curl, his skinny arm revealing a profile approximating that of a bent pipe cleaner. "What do you think, Lisa?"

"I'll tell you when you show me your biceps, Bruce."

"Show you...?" Bruce feigned indignation. "This is it! It's the best I can do." There was some feminine giggling from one of the other tables.

"Oh..." Lisa eyed his arm. "Where's the widest bit? It all looks the same to me." She shrugged and wrapped the strip of newspaper about his arm, marked where it met itself, and then laid it flat on the table, writing _BS_ by the mark.

Bruce looked at the initials. "I hope that's not some comment about my physique!"

"That all y've got, Sanders?" Butch looked at him amazement. "Lemme show ya 'ow it's done. Here, Honey..." He rolled up his sleeve. "'Ow's that?"

"Now that's what I call a muscle," she said appreciatively. She wrapped the paper around his bicep and came up short. "One paper strip... plus the width of my thumb."

"The champ-e-on!" Butch gloated.

"Not until the contest is over," Bruce reminded him. "Your turn, Virgil."

"Nope."

"Come on," Lisa cajoled. "Don't be a spoilsport."

"I'm telling you now, my biceps aren't as big as Butch's!"

"I think we need an independent adjudicator to decide that," Bruce told his reluctant friend.

"And you think Lisa, Butch's wife," Virgil jerked his thumb in their direction, "is independent?!"

"The newspaper is." Bruce grabbed Virgil's arm. "Come on, flex that baby."

"Let go." Virgil shook him free. "I was wrong... Sunday wasn't 'pick on Virgil' day; it was the start of 'pick on Virgil' week!"

His friends stared at him. "Huh?"

"Never mind."

"Please," Bruce pleaded. "Remember, this isn't a genuine contest..."

Butch looked saddened. "It isn't?"

Lisa kissed him on the top of head. "Never mind, Dear. I'll make it up to you later."

"Shush," Bruce told them. "What we are trying to do," he said, voice low, "is see what reaction you, hero of the moment, get when you show off that manly physique. We've already ascertained that Butch is enough man for only one woman, and that I am guaranteed to induce mass hystericals..."

"You mean mass hysteria," Lisa corrected.

"I know what I mean... Now we want to see what affect someone who, in Lisa's opinion at least, embodies the heroic man; what affect you have on the poor twittering females of the world... or at least ACE."

Virgil looked at him. "If I do it, can we forget, once and for all, this heroic nonsense?"

"If you want."

Virgil sighed. He knew he was an attractive man, it came as part of the Tracy genetic territory, and he had to admit that deep down he was finding all this attention flattering. "You guys are worse than my brothers! All right then." He did a bicep curl. "Measure it quick, Lisa."

There was a commotion from the other side of the room.

"Hate to tell you this, Virgil," Bruce chuckled, "but I think Winston's just swooned."

But it wasn't Winston who'd created the disturbance. Hamish Mickelson had entered the lunchroom accompanied by his personal assistant and two strangers. "My apologies for making you all wait."

"That's okay, Mr M," someone said. "You're paying us to sit here and twiddle our thumbs." There was laughter throughout the room.

Hamish Mickelson smiled at the joke. "Thank you for being so understanding, Aaron... I know that we usually hold these staff meetings on Monday mornings, but this week I have a couple of good reasons for ignoring protocol. Firstly; I would like to thank Bruce Sanders and the rest of the social club committee for what was, if you exclude the trip home, a fun and memorable day."

"May I speak, Mr Mickelson?" Bruce stood. "As president of the social club, I'd like to extend my own thanks to Alan Tracy, Mr Tracy and Team Tracy for giving up their time and opening up their facilities to us. I'd like to thank our original pilots, yourself and Virgil, for getting us there safely..." He smirked. "And I'd like to thank Louis and others for ensuring that the day finished with a bang." There were jeers and Louis Fleming was pelted with balls of screwed up newspaper.

"Err, thank you, Bruce... I think," Mickelson said.

"And I know everyone will be pleased that the raffles raised $585 profit which will go to the Neurological Foundation," Bruce finished. He sat down to applause and cheers of "nice one."

Hamish Mickelson held up a hand for quiet. "And now," he said, with the air of one who wished he could produce more of a fanfare, "we come to the most important part of this meeting." The two strangers straightened in their seats and preened. "I don't need to remind anyone of what we all went through on the flight home on Saturday, and how lucky we were to have two such capable pilots controlling that plane." He didn't see the strangers appear to deflate. "Without their skills things could have been worse... much worse. We are fortunate to be able to count one of those pilots as an employee of Aeronautical Component Engineering. I know that he's not interested in publicity, and is probably embarrassed by all the attention we're giving him, but we all owe him a great debt..." He looked at the young man at the back of the room who seemed to be more intrigued by the mechanics of a ballpoint pen than by the speech. "And so, I'd like to ask Virgil to step forward."

Virgil had been listening to the monologue with mixed feelings. It was gratifying to be honoured by his colleagues, but at the same time he wished they'd just shut up and get on with their lives, leaving him to get on with his. He couldn't escape the irony of the fact that these were the very people who'd resented his presence when he'd first arrived at ACE. Face burning, he stood, pushed past a grinning Bruce who clapped him on the back, and walked between tables of dewy-eyed females towards his boss and long-time family friend.

Hamish reached out and grabbed Virgil's hand in what started as a handshake, but ended up twisting him around so he was facing the 'audience'. "Virgil," Hamish clapped him on the shoulder, "a lot of thought went into what would be considered an appropriate memento of your part in Saturday's drama. It was thought that you wouldn't appreciate a mere certificate, so we had to find something that matched your skills and talents... Olivia..." His P.A. wheeled over a large object that had been hidden under a cloth on a trolley behind the door. "Thank you... Virgil, please accept this token of Aeronautical Component Engineering's appreciation for your courage, resourcefulness, and skill." Accompanied by a rousing applause and cheers, and a standing ovation from the three people at the back of the room, he whipped off the cloth revealing a sculptured piece of metal.

Numb, Virgil took in his trophy. This wasn't just any ordinary piece of metal. Roughly half a metre long and 30 centimetres high, it was white except where the paint had been scratched away. In its original incarnation the object had been flat; now it curved back on itself and was capped, forming a shape representing the aerofoil profile of an aeroplane's wings. Scarred numbers painted black on white read FAB-32, the registration number of the aeroplane they'd crashed in on Saturday. Laser etched into the panel's surface was signature after signature; the name of every person who'd been on the flight and who owed Virgil their life. "I don't believe it! Is this one of the plane's panels?"

"Yes." Hamish cleared his throat as if embarrassed. "It has been pointed out to me that an error was made in the engraving." He pointed above the registration number. "I'm afraid that the engraver had been reading too many newspaper articles and has dedicated this to Virgil_ Tracy_. We can, of course, rectify the error... if you wish."

"No, don't do that," Virgil grinned, toying with the idea of revealing his true identity. "I would appreciate being known as Jeff Tracy's son..."

"Especially if it means being mentioned in the will," someone quipped.

The look in Hamish's eyes made Virgil think that he was almost expecting that this would be the moment when all secrets would be revealed to ACE... But then the possibility that many in the team would feel betrayed if they discovered that the boss's son had been working incognito amongst them for so long reared its head. So Virgil kept his speech short and simple. "I'll treasure this, and all the thought and work that went into it. Thank you."

"Thank _you_, Virgil. Perhaps you'll permit us to leave this on display in the canteen for the rest of the day?" The hand on his shoulder guided Virgil back in the direction of his seat and he obeyed, wishing that he could stay and admire his new acquisition. His parade back to his seat was to the accompaniment of congratulatory words and gestures.

Hamish Mickelson picked up a piece of paper. "After that extremely satisfying task, I am now on to more mundane items of business..."

Virgil wasn't listening as his boss droned on. He was filled with a new kind of heat; the pleasurable warmth that came with being recognised and acknowledged. He only just managed to drag himself back to reality as Mickelson was saying, "...and finally I would like to introduce Ethan Linsay of Tuffas Safety Products and Nicole Rasmussen of Topratez Advertising. Most of you will know that Tuffas supplies all of ACE's safety equipment. They are in the process of producing a new catalogue and have asked if we would be willing to provide the factory as backdrop for their models. Would you care to expand on this, Ms Rasmussen?"

The young women, the epitome of cool confidence, stood and turned to address her audience. "Thank you, Mr Mickelson... Topratez has been hired by Tuffas to produce the catalogue and associated advertising materials. Our creative team have decided that to add to the realism and authenticity of the spread, we would not only shoot in a genuine factory, but..." she gave a dramatic pause, "use the workers from that factory as models." An excited murmur rumbled through the lunchroom. "We are envisaging at least two principal models, but others will be visible in the background. Naturally should your image appear in the advertising, you will be recompensed according to the frequency of the usage, and how clearly you can be identified in the photos. If you are a principle model, or are clearly seen in the foreground, you will receive $20.00 per photo used. If you are in the background, but recognisable, you will receive $5.00 per photo." She removed a catalogue from the bag next to her chair and flicked through it. "As you can see, this could quickly add up to a sizeable amount. There is also the chance that your image could be used in advertising such as that designed for other print media and television..." She gestured to Olivia, the PA, and Hamish Mickelson's assistant started handing out pieces of paper. "These are forms authorising Topratez to take your photographs and Tuffas to use said photographs in their advertising. There is also room for you to state that you refuse for your image to be taken or used in any way."

Virgil was pleased to hear this. He received his form from Olivia with a smile of thanks, wrote his name at the top, his alias flowing from his pen nearly as easily as if it had been his real name. Then he put an emphatic cross next to _I do not consent to having my image taken or used by Topratez and/or Tuffas._

"So you're not interested?" Bruce commented, looking over his shoulder. "What a surprise," he deadpanned.

"And you are," Virgil said, looking at his friends form.

Bruce shrugged. "I won't have a chance. We've already proved today that I'm not in the same league as some of you guys, but you've got to be in to win, right?"

Virgil nodded. "Right. How about you two?" he asked the Crumps.

Lisa giggled. "It might be fun. People are always saying that I should be a model. Maybe this is my lucky break?"

"How about you, Butch?" Bruce asked, leaning across Virgil to grab the big man's form. "So you're a yes too?"

"Could do with the money," Butch grunted.

"Couldn't we all," Bruce sighed. "Well, most of us," he amended with a sideways look at Virgil.

"I must apologise," Mickelson was saying. "I had intended on telling you all about the _shoot_ yesterday, but I'm afraid the excitements of the weekend rather took over everything. Also all photography was originally planned for next week, but today I have been informed," the lines of his face hardened, "that the timeframe has been brought forward. As most of ACE's customers demand complete confidentiality, no photography will take place during work hours using actual product. Therefore filming will take place after four p.m. on Friday afternoon." He looked at his watch. "That concludes what has become a very long meeting. If you could all deposit your forms with Olivia on the way out, then the hopefuls will be interviewed throughout the day. Those who are shortlisted will undergo a photographic screen-test tomorrow. By Thursday afternoon we should all know who the lucky models are."

Virgil didn't hurry back to work; he wanted to have another look at his prize. He gave his form to Lisa to hand in and, letting the rest of the crew push forward ahead of him, sauntered up to the front.

"Happy?" Bruce asked.

Virgil nodded. "This is better than anything I could have expected. Did you know about it?"

"Know about it?" Bruce chuckled. "Who do you think sweet-talked the Air Accident Inspector into letting us have the panel before he'd finished his investigation?"

"You?"

"Uh, huh. It's amazing how much you can get away with when you mention the name _Tracy_."

Virgil examined where the two edges of the panel had been welded together to form what would have been the sharp trailing edge of the aerofoil's cross section. "I think I can guess who did the welding." He grinned at Lisa Crump. "Thanks."

"We had t' have the best for ya," Butch stated, giving his wife a squeeze. "I bent it," he added proudly.

"With his bare hands," Bruce quipped. "He wrapped it around Lou's neck."

"I took a photo," Lisa said, showing Virgil her cell phone. On it was an image of him receiving his reward; a big smile on his face. "I've sent it through to Gordon and Mrs T."

"You didn't," he groaned. "They'll never let me live it down."

"I don't think so." Lisa showed him Gordon's reply. _Deserved. Tell him to bring it Fri._ "Mrs T says she's going to put the photo in her scrapbook_._"

The four friends were joined by the General Manager and Greg Harrison. "I thought I said it was time to get back to work," Hamish growled, the twinkle in his eyes betraying the seriousness of his tone.

Virgil ran his finger across his name on the trophy. "I'm glad you put my real name on it. Thanks."

Hamish Mickelson clapped him on the back. "It's a memento of your _first_…" there was the merest hint of emphasis on the word; something that only Virgil picked up on, "…big rescue and we wanted to make it special."

"Aren't you just the teeniest, tiniest worried about ACE, Mr Mickelson?" Bruce asked.

"Worried?" Confused Hamish frowned. "No. Why?"

"Isn't it supposed to employ some of the best engineers in the country?"

Greg chuckled. "Present company excepted, Sanders."

Hamish was still trying to work out what Bruce was saying. "ACE does employ the best. We make a point of it."

"But most of them can't even do simple arithmetic!"

"I'm sure I'm going to regret asking this," Hamish sighed. "But what do you mean, _simple arithmetic_?"

Bruce flashed him a broad grin and indicated Virgil and the trophy. "They can't even put two and two together."

Everyone groaned. Everyone except for Butch who seemed to find it the funniest thing he'd heard all week. Virgil was surprised that he'd even got the joke.

"For a moment there, Virgil, I thought you were going to reveal your relationship to Jeff Tracy," Greg commented.

"For a moment there, I considered it," Virgil admitted. "Then I realised that I'm so close to finishing here that I didn't want to risk rocking the boat."

"Rather that than crashing a plane," Bruce quipped.

"Have you all handed in your forms?" Hamish asked. When they nodded, he smiled. "The advertising people have already started a shortlist. They asked me if I would recommend our 'hero'," he smiled at Virgil. "I told them that I thought it was highly unlikely that you would be interested in participating. Ms Rasmussen has asked me to try to change your mind. Consider this an 'attempt'."

"Considered," Virgil agreed. "And the answer's still no."

"I shall inform Ms Rasmussen."

"Thank you."

"Come on you lot," Greg said. "Time we got some work done. You can gloat over your spoils later, Virgil."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Morning tea rolled around and Virgil found himself in a long queue. For some reason there was a hold up dishing out the coffees and the line was moving slowly.

"At this rate it'll be lunchtime by the time we get served," Bruce complained. "Hey, Virgil, why don't you use your star power and get to the front and get us a couple of coffees. No one would mind if _you_ jumped the queue."

"I'd mind," Virgil retorted. "I'm not expecting any special favours… What's the hold up anyway?"

Their co-worker in the queue behind them, a woman from the paint bay named Nancy, had the answer. "Those advertising people are trying to put faces to the names on our forms. They're asking everyone who they are."

"I don't know why most of us even bothered," grumped her friend Carolyn, a dour woman from inwards goods. "It's obvious that if Lisa Crump's put her name forward, then the rest of us haven't got a chance."

"That's if they pick a woman at all," Nancy agreed.

"They'd have to, wouldn't they?" Virgil asked. "There're nearly as many women working at ACE as men. To deliberately not pick one of you would be discrimination."

"Okay, fine. So they're liberated enough to choose one man and one woman as the principle models…" Carolyn was still grumbling. "But I guarantee that the two they'll pick, Virgil Tancy, will be you and Lisa."

"And I will guarantee that they don't pick me," Virgil rejoined.

"Don't give me that," she scoffed. "We saw you showing off this morning…" Virgil scowled at Bruce who ducked his head apologetically. "And we all know that with your looks you've got the job sewn up."

"No, I haven't," Virgil corrected. "I put a cross in the box that says I'm not willing to participate."

Nancy's jaw dropped. "You did what?"

"I've had enough publicity after this weekend," Virgil admitted. "I don't need any more."

"What about the money?" Carolyn demanded.

"He doesn't need any more of that either," Bruce joked.

Virgil glared at him again as they shuffled forward two steps.

"Come on!" Nancy grumbled. "Get a move on… Someone should complain to Mr Mickelson. This is _our_ time that's being wasted… Hurry up!" she said loudly, directing her irritation to the front of the queue.

"Yeah!" someone agreed. "We're thirsty, we've been on our feet most of the morning and we need a break!"

"Yes!" a third person exclaimed. "We do _real_ work!"

"I think you're starting a riot, Nancy," Virgil muttered.

"I'm just exercising the worker's right to have a ten minute break during the course of the morning," the woman responded.

"You're friends with Mr Mickelson…" Bruce nudged Virgil. "You could go and complain."

"Greg's already gone," Paul had overheard their conversation. "We should get some action soon."

"They're wasting our time and it's not even as if they're going to choose any of us," Carolyn griped. "Like I said, they'll choose Lisa. You'd think they'd at least let the rest of us women get our drinks and sit down."

"You're only assuming that they want someone like Lisa," Virgil told her. "They might not be looking for someone who's… um…" He tried to think of an adequate adjective.

"Drooled over by every man in the place," Nancy said snidely.

Bruce laughed. "You mean every man except Winston."

"You're generalising, Nancy," Virgil told her.

"Sure," she sneered. "And in general all men are the same. You all melt into a puddle of hormones as soon as you see Lisa Crump and those like Lisa Crump. And you're just as bad as the rest of them, Virgil."

"She's a friend," Virgil protested, with a feeling of déjà vu. "I do not _melt_!"

"If she's your friend; is any chance of you getting her to not to put her name forward?" Carolyn asked. "So the rest of us at least have a chance?"

"None whatsoever. But, as I said, there's nothing to say that Lisa will be picked. She looks like a model, not an engineer. Maybe they'll choose someone who looks like they don't mind getting grease under their nails."

Carolyn squared up to him. "And what does a woman who _doesn't mind getting grease under her nails_ look like?"

Virgil looked at her. "Ah…"

"Yes, Virgil," Nancy asked, stepping closer. "What _do_ you mean?"

"Um…" Virgil looked at Bruce for assistance, but his friend was having too much fun at his expense.

"Well, Virgil?" Carolyn prompted.

"Ah… I… I don't think I'll bother about having a coffee." Virgil relinquished his place in the queue and it was quickly filled up by two triumphant women. "I'll get some water instead."

"What are you doing, Virgil?" Bruce asked, smirking.

"Getting myself out of a hole before I dig myself in too much deeper."

Bruce laughed. "I thought you were fearless."

"Fearless, but not foolish." Virgil headed towards the crowd gathered around the water cooler.

Still smiling, Bruce looked at Nancy and Carolyn, who glared back. He lost his smile. "Ah… Virgil...!" He took a step out of the line. "Grab me some water while you're there!" He fixed the two women with an ingratiating grin. "Why don't you ladies take my place...?" He fled.

With satisfied grins of their own, Carolyn and Nancy moved another place up the queue.

Virgil was at the back of the group of disgruntled employees who were availing themselves of the water cooler when someone touched him on the arm. "Would you like a coffee, ah, Virgil?"

It was the advertising agent, Nicole Rasmussen, and she was holding a cup of warm, brown, aromatic liquid.

"No, thanks," he responded. "I'll make do with water. There are plenty still waiting for a hot drink who I am sure would appreciate it though." He indicated the long line of co-workers.

She didn't move. "I was impressed with that award they gave you this morning," she admitted. "Mr Mickelson told me how you saved all their lives."

Virgil shrugged and pretended to try to get closer to the cooler so he could move away from her. "Anyone who was in my position would have done the same. I did what I had to."

"And everyone at Aeronautical Component Engineering obviously respects you for it." She stepped closer again, trying to press the cup into his hands. "Are you sure you don't want this?"

"No, thanks."

"I see you've decided against putting your name forward for the photo shoot."

"That's right."

"Is there any chance I could get you to change your mind?"

Virgil was starting to feel very uncomfortable. He was well aware that the people around them were listening. "No chance whatsoever."

"Think how proud your family would be if they knew your photo was in every engineering workshop in the country."

"Proud is not the word I think they would use," Virgil replied, imagining Jeff Tracy's reaction to his son's appearance in a widespread publication. "Look. You've got lots of people who want to give it a go," he indicated the queue, "otherwise you wouldn't be holding everyone up. Why don't you go and…" he nearly said 'annoy', "talk to them?"

"Because you've got the look…" Nicole ran eyes over him and he felt his skin crawl, "and the body we want. And you're not afraid to show it off. I saw you with your workmates before the meeting started this morning." She treated him to a lascivious wink. "I was very impressed."

Bruce had managed to score two cups of water and was heading towards his friend, intending to give one to him. He heard Nicole's words, saw Virgil's face darken, and veered away; realising that it was time to make himself scarce. He found the Crumps in the coffee queue. "Don't go near Virgil," he warned, giving Lisa his second cup. "That ad woman's trying to sweet talk him into applying for the photo shoot and he's not happy; with her or with us."

"What'd we do?" Butch asked.

"She saw him show his muscles this morning. I think he's blaming us for the unwanted attention."

"Oh," Lisa bit her lip. "I suppose he's right." She jumped, nearly spilling her water, when a door slammed open.

"What is going on here?!"

At the unexpected shout, everyone turned towards the entrance to the lunchroom. It was Hamish Mickelson and he stood in the doorway with Greg Harrison by his side. Neither man looked pleased.

The bell that marked the end of morning tea sounded.

"Oh, great," someone moaned.

"We haven't had our coffee yet, Mr M.," someone else complained.

"Yeah, and we've been waiting here for hours."

"It's these ad people; they're stopping the line from moving."

"Ms Rasmussen," Mickelson turned to the woman from Topratez Advertising. "What is going on?" He glanced at Virgil who attempted to sneak away. "Why is there a hold up?"

She smiled an advertising executive's smile at him. "We are just trying to put names to the faces."

"Then why are you talking to Virgil Tancy, when he has clearly stated that he does not want to be part of your campaign?"

"I was hoping to change his mind."

"Olivia!" Mickelson bellowed.

His P.A. had been one of the lucky ones who had managed to get her mid-morning cup of coffee. Cowering slightly, she hurried from her table to her boss. "Yes, Mr Mickelson?"

"Take all the forms from the Topratez people and set up a schedule where they can interview every person _interested_," he glared at Nicole, "in being part of the Tuffas catalogue."

"Yes, Mr Mickelson."

"Each interview is to only last five minutes."

"Yes, Mr Mickelson."

Nicole held up her hand. "But five minutes isn't long enough."

"It will be for the initial interview," Mickelson told her. "You may proceed with the screen tests tomorrow as agreed… As for the rest of you…" he raised his voice. "I would like to apologise on Topratez's behalf for the interruption to your morning break." He looked at his watch. "I will give you another ten minutes. I expect everyone to be back at work at 10:11 am." He turned back to Nicole. "You and your people will leave my people alone until you interview them at the agreed times."

"Yes, Mr Mickelson," she nodded.

"And you will not annoy anyone who does not wish to participate."

She nodded again.

"Good. You may use the boardroom for your interviews. I'll show you where that is."

"Thank you."

Desperate for something warmer than a chilly cup of water, and relieved that the fuss seemed to be all over, Virgil rejoined the coffee queue.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Are you mad with us?" Bruce Sanders asked.

"Yes."

"We didn't know Mr Mickelson was going to walk in with a predatory ad woman," Bruce stated. "Honest, Virgil…" Virgil managed to hold back a grin as an image of Bruce and a certain cell phone came to mind, "...it was only a bit of fun. We wanted your presentation to be a big surprise."

"It was."

"And we wanted to make sure that you didn't get a big head with all the attention you were getting."

Virgil sighed. "I thought you'd know me better than that by now."

"Well… I'll admit that we got carried away slightly." Bruce looked downcast as he jammed his hands into his pockets and walked with his friend to where Greg Harrison was working by the crucible furnace. "Isn't there some syndrome where people who survive the trauma of a near-death experience start to act out of character?"

"Yes."

"Do you think we've got it?"

Virgil left the question unanswered. "What do you want us to do, Greg?"

"Well, Mr Sanders..." Greg's eye twinkled. "Mr _Tracy_, we are going to fill this mould here." He patted a structure about ten metres high.

"What is it?" Bruce asked, eyeing the monstrous mould up. "It looks a bit outside ACE's normal field."

"I don't know exactly," Greg admitted. "All I know is that it's something conical from Bleathman Corp, and that we're filling it with the Cahelium that's in the furnace. And we've got to do a good job. Any cracks or weak points and we've got to do it again... at ACE's expense."

Virgil knew exactly what the finished product was going to be: the drill bit nose for International Rescue's drilling machine. He wanted the pour to go well too, but for totally different reasons than Greg's. Lives were going to depend on this machine functioning properly... His included.

"Better get your flame retardant suits on," Greg instructed. "We're having to pump the furnace right up to her maximum sustainable temperature in order to do this job. Make sure they're sealed tight and that all systems are operational. Breathing, cooling, communications, the lot. Check each other's PPE. We don't want any meltdowns... literally. Got me?"

"Yes, Sir," his two assistants agreed.

"Then go and do it and get back here straight away."

In the attached preparations room, Bruce and Virgil readied themselves for the pour in silence. But, before he pulled his hood over his head, Bruce spoke. "Sorry."

Virgil grinned. "That was all I was waiting for."

"Really?"

Virgil pulled his hood on and sealed the edge. "Okay, check me over."

Bruce, working methodically, checked that every gap in Virgil's suit was sealed tightly. Then he submitted to Virgil repeating the process on him. Feeling like a pair of astronauts in their silver reflective gear, they left the preparations room. "That's one small step for man..." Bruce joked, his voice slightly tinny in Virgil's earpiece.

Virgil looked up at the top of the mould. "It'll be a giant leap if we fall from up there."

"Then you'd better make sure you don't fall then," Greg's voice told them. They turned and found him in the supervisor's personal protective equipment.

"If this stuff works like they say it does, we'd make a good ad for Tuffas," Bruce noted. "And better still, no one would recognise Virgil."

"Don't forget this isn't a closed circuit, Bruce," Greg warned. "I wouldn't go telling each other your girlfriends' phone numbers."

"Yes, Sir."

"Right, up you go," Greg indicated the hydraulic platform and stepped back.

Following Bruce, Virgil stepped onto the platform and clipped the carabiner attached to the safety harness about his torso to the cage. Both men gave their supervisor the thumbs up signal, and he operated the controls that sent them rising up towards the top level of the furnace. When the platform came to a stop, they unclipped their harnesses from the cage, clipped them onto a guide line, and made their separate ways along the gantry until they were on opposite sides of the boiling crucible of molten metal.

"Are you in position, Tracy?" Greg asked.

"In position," Virgil confirmed.

"Are you in position, Sanders?"

"In position," Bruce echoed.

"Good. Starting computer programme now…"

"Wait!" It was Bruce who spoke. "Hang on, Greg…" He sounded breathless.

His supervisor was quick to respond. "What is it, Bruce?"

"Behind you. I think someone's taking photos."

"What?" Virgil felt his heart leap into his mouth. Sure, the physical shape of the drilling machine was largely concealed by the mould's exterior, but even the slightest hint to the wrong people that ACE was involved with the manufacture of objects outside its usual aeronautical scope, could spell trouble for both the company and International Rescue. Long before Gordon's accident, Lady Penelope had reported that she had information that someone was trying to get their secrets. How this person or organisation knew that International Rescue and its advanced equipment were in existence was a mystery, but the fact that word had somehow leaked out was of huge concern to them all. "Who is it?"

"One of those ad guys, I think…"

Greg Harrison was marching towards the miscreant; the set of his body showing that he was angry. He stepped through the safety barrier, removed his hood, and began to berate the photographer.

"I can't hear what he's saying," Bruce complained

Virgil agreed. Without the microphone in Greg's hood, his words weren't being transmitted up to them. His body language was telling the story though. He grabbed the photographer by the arm and dragged the obviously complaining man away towards the offices.

"It looks like we're going to be up here a while," Virgil said. He leant on the guard rail and looked down into the red-hot liquid, glad that the protective material and cooling layer in his suit was shielding him from the heat. "You know," he said, as much to pass the time as anything, "for as long as I've worked here, this crucible furnace has always kinda given me the creeps."

He could hear the surprise in Bruce's reply. "It gives _you_ the creeps?"

"Yes. I don't know why. I look at it from the other side of the factory and it reminds me of Medusa with her head of writhing snakes. Venomous and deadly."

"Medusa," Bruce deadpanned.

"Yes."

"With a head of snakes?"

"Yes. If you stand back you can see the heat waves rising up like hissing serpents."

"Oh – Kay…" Bruce enunciated. "That is seriously weird. Do you want me to tell you what this crucible furnace reminds me of?"

"Yes."

"A big bowl of molten metal."

Virgil chuckled. "Philistine."

"Artiste."

"Here's Greg," Virgil indicated the supervisor who was marching back to the barrier. They watched as he donned his protective headgear again and then entered the restricted area.

"Was it someone from the ad agency, Greg?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," Greg growled. "They were getting some test shots to see how well each area would photograph so they would know where they would need extra lights. Mr Mickelson's reminding them of ACE's strict no photographs rule. I think he's beginning to regret that he ever agreed to Tuffas' proposal." He took his place at the control panel. "Okay, Boys, let's see if we can actually manage to get some work done today…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Virgil! Bruce!" Lisa Crump bounded up to them. It was Thursday afternoon and they were about to leave work for the day. "Guess what!"

"Ummm… Don't say anything! Let me use my magical ESP powers to see if I can read your mind…" Bruce droned. He closed his eyes and pressed the tips of both forefingers against his forehead as if he were trying to concentrate his thoughts. "I'm reading something…. It's getting clearer…" He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. "You've been picked to be one of the models!"

Lisa gave him an affectionate punch on the arm. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes."

"That's great, Lisa," Virgil enthused. "Congratulations."

"Yeah," Bruce agreed. "Who's the other lucky sucker?"

She giggled. "Winston Patterson."

"Winston! He'll be in his element," Bruce chuckled. "Have they decided who the background people are going to be?"

"They've only chosen four extras. Myra from the paint bay, Alex from the stores, and Jim and Lea from the shop floor."

"Oh." Bruce seemed disappointed.

"Don't tell me you wanted to take part!?" Virgil exclaimed.

Bruce gave a shrug. "I was curious what it would be like," he said, trying to sound off-hand. "It doesn't matter though."

"Maybe you can still help out…" Lisa slipped her arms through the two men's and started walking towards the exit. "I'm glad I caught up with the pair of you. Tomorrow when they take the photos, would you consider being here?"

"Why?" Bruce asked. "What could we do?"

"Ah... Act as bodyguards."

"Again?"

"What kind of shoot are you expecting?" Virgil exclaimed. "You'll be modelling safety gear not swimwear. Besides, I'd think that Butch is more than capable of taking care of you."

"It's not me I'm worried about," Lisa admitted. "You know how possessive Butch gets and I'm worried that he might, ah, misinterpret something that someone might say. You two can keep him calm. I know it's an imposition, and I know you'll want to fly out to see Gordon as soon as possible, Virgil, but Butch trusts and respects you both. He'd listen to you where he might not listen to anyone else."

"I'm remembering what happened last time you asked us to act as bodyguards," Virgil recollected.

"I'm still sorry about that," Lisa admitted. "But I'm sure things won't get that bad this time. As you said, they're only photographing us in personal protective equipment."

"Despite the potential risks to my health, I'm in," Bruce agreed. "The question is: do you think a runt like me will be enough to hold Butch back alone? Any chance of you staying, Virgil? Even if only for a short while?"

Virgil was giving the request serious consideration. His normal Friday afternoon activity was to head straight home after work, have a quick wash and change, grab his bag and head for the airport: a prospect he was dreading. Lisa's request gave him an adequate excuse to delay the trip. "I'll call the family and tell them to expect me first thing Saturday morning."

"Thank you." Lisa gave their arms an affectionate squeeze. "This makes me feel so much better."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Friday afternoon rolled around. Much to Virgil's amusement, Greg's habit of calling him "_Tracy_" had caught on amongst their workmates. Those who didn't know his true identity thought it made a great nickname, while those who knew the truth were enjoying being in on the joke. Virgil didn't mind whether his colleagues called him Virgil or Tracy, and was simply enjoying having his real name used. Only a few of Louis' cronies persisted in calling him _Veggie_ and, Virgil realised, even Louis had stopped that after the excitements of last Saturday.

"What have you got that for, Tracy?" Bruce asked, seeing Virgil's sketchpad.

Virgil claimed a seat on a workbench so that he and Bruce had Butch sandwiched between them. From here they had a good view of the advertising photo shoot. "You've never been to one of these things before, have you? Let me tell you, they're dead boring."

"Boring?" Butch queried. "I didn' think it would be boring."

"Just you wait," Virgil advised. "And I'm warning you that you'll be doing a lot of that. They fiddle about getting the lighting just right, then they'll position the model exactly where they want them, then the lighting will be all wrong and they'll have to start all over again."

"How'd you know this?"

"I watched a couple of photographic sessions for some of Father's companies' portfolios."

Winston made an entrance. To say that he'd simply arrived would have been an understatement. He was clad in silver lame trousers, a sequined jacket, a rainbow-hued silk scarf adorned his neck, and on his face he wore an enormous pair of sparkly sunglasses. "How do I look, Peoples? Do I look like a mod-del?"

"Definitely," Bruce nodded.

"Thank you, Darling," Winston gloated. "I felt that on this auspicious occasion I simply had to make the effort."

"But your jacket might disrupt their lighting a bit," Bruce observed. "You know, highlight areas which should be in shadow."

"Oh! I hope not! Surely you don't think I've overdone it? What do you think, Butch? Virgil?"

Virgil reflected that Winston overdid everything, but the man was so friendly and gregarious that it was impossible to take offence. A computer aided design draftsman, he was an expert in his field. He was also, in his own words, so far out of thecloset that he had to hang his coat on a chair, and he got as much fun teasing his friends and workmates about their being straight as they did about him being gay. He was in a permanent relationship with an accountant named Rex, who Winston called his "little puppy dog". On the rare occasion when someone new at ACE had taken exception to who and what Winston was, Winston's colleagues had always quickly informed them that the draftsman was an important part of the fabric of the company and that if the newcomer didn't like it, then there were other jobs out there.

"I like the colours in your scarf," Virgil admitted. "I could use that as inspiration for my next painting."

"Oh, thank you!" Winston gushed, clearly delighted with the compliment. "It was an anniversary gift from my little puppy dog."

Lisa arrived, looking freshly washed and changed, but considerably less glamorous than her 'co-star'. "Oh dear, now I'm feeling very underdressed. Are you trying to show me up, Winston?"

"Darling," Winston cooed. "You could wear nothing and you'd still look glamorous."

"Thank you."

"Winston, you're the only man in the place who could make that statement and still have his own teeth," Bruce chuckled. "Right, Butch?" The big man laughed.

"Would you do me a favour, Virgil?" Winston asked. "Rexy said he was coming here after work, but he doesn't know his way around the factory. Would you be a sweetheart and escort him in?"

"Sure." Virgil hopped down off the bench. "No problem."

He found the accountant waiting by the gate looking as straight and colourless as you'd expect of a man of his profession. Rex was as conservative as his partner was flamboyant and Virgil had found it hard to reconcile the two as a pair, until he had seen how they acted together. Then it was obvious that Rex and Winston were as devoted a couple as Lisa and Butch. "Hi, Rex. I'm here to escort you inside."

"Hello, Virgil. So, you've come to my rescue again." Rex beamed. "I never got the chance to say thank you last time. So... thank you."

Virgil made a dismissive gesture. "Like I keep on telling people, I was saving my neck as well as everyone else's."

"But still," Rex held out his hand, "I'm glad ACE saw fit to reward you."

"Thank _you_," Virgil accepted the appreciative handshake, "I saw your signature on it." They started walking towards the factory's entrance.

"Erm... May I ask you a personal question, Virgil?" Rex enquired.

Virgil was surprised. Winston was likely to ask anything, but for Rex to ask something personal seemed out of character. "Depends what it is."

"Are you Jeff Tracy's son?"

Virgil laughed. "Yes."

"Ha! That's dinner that the old mare owes me," Rex gloated. "I thought you must have been, but Winnie said that he was sure you would have told everyone by now if you were. Don't worry, I can keep a secret; there are members of my extended family who still think Winston and I are simply flatmates. And Winnie will get such a kick knowing a bit of gossip about you that no one else knows that he'll be unbearable for days."

"There are a few people who know," Virgil admitted. "But I've decided that I'll probably keep it a secret until I leave."

Rex mimed locking his lips together.

"Thanks." Virgil grinned. "What gave me away? Was it the papers?"

"They confirmed my suspicions," Rex admitted. "But you and your brother are similar in looks. Actually Alan's the reason why I went on last Saturday's trip. Car racing bores me to tears, but I wanted to see what he looked like under that cap. You never get a good photo of him in the papers. Winnie just wanted to check him out in that jump suit of his."

Virgil nearly choked as he imagined his kid brother's reaction to that revelation. "We're in here." He held open a door.

Winston and Lisa and the rest of the ACE crew were now dressed in clothing more suitable for factory workers, and were gathered around the photographer. Winston looked up, saw his partner and treated him to what could only be described as a gay wave. Rex responded with a _chalk one up to me_ gesture. Winston looked surprised, glanced at Virgil and then his face broke into a big beaming smile.

Virgil got a chair for Rex and then reclaimed his seat on the bench. "Has anything interesting happened?" he asked as he picked up his sketchbook.

"A lot of talking," Bruce said.

"'N' arm wavin'," Butch added.

"What are you drawing?" Rex asked.

Virgil shrugged. "Whatever I find interesting. I thought I might be able to record something of what's happening."

"Quiet please," one of the ad people called. "Now, Lisa, darling, will you stand there next to Winston...? Good. Now pretend to be showing him something on the plan..."

"Frankie, darling," the wardrobe lady asked, "what do you want them to wear next?"

"The fluros I think, darling. Then we'll get started on the welding gear."

"Rex, darling," Winston called. "Will you look after my scarf and make sure it hasn't fallen on the floor?"

"Of course, Winnie."

Bruce chuckled. "There are so many darlings flying about that I'm almost expecting Peter Pan to come zooming in."

Virgil looked at him. "I didn't take you to be a Peter Pan fan."

"Oh, yes. My mother's English and she insisted that I read the English classics as a kid. So I read _Peter and Wendy_, _Wind in the willows_, and Rex's favourite: _Winnie-the-Pooh_."

Everyone, including Rex, laughed until they were shushed by the photographer.

"Hey, Virgil." Bruce pointed down past a barricaded area to where the crucible furnace was cooling down after yesterday's pour. "Why don't you do a sketch to show us how you described that to me? Maybe then it'll make sense."

"'Ow ya described what?" Butch's face was screwed up in confusion.

"Virgil and I were discussing the furnace yesterday," Bruce explained. "He said that..."

"Quiet! Please!" He was scowled at by the head honcho and ducked his head apologetically.

The observers sat in silence for a time, in general more interested in what was appearing on Virgil's sketchpad than the posing of the models. From the artist's pencil appeared a spheroid structure with an open top like a bowl. Superimposed on the crucible was the scowling face of a woman. From the crown of the woman's head, or the mouth of the crucible depending on your point of view, writhed wisps of steam; morphing into the heads of hissing snakes.

"Medusa..." Butch mused. "She useta look at a fella an' 'e'd turn ta stone."

Surprised Virgil stared at him. "You guys are more cultured than I thought!"

"One of th' Skulz 'ad 'er as a tat on 'is arm," Butch explained.

"Ah."

Almost unnoticed, the photographic team finished their photos and moved to another part of the factory.

Virgil signed his sketch with a flourish and held it so they could all see it. "There that's what I mean. But remember it's only an impression I get. A kind of metaphor."

"But if you fell into molten metal you'd burn up or melt rather than turn to stone, wouldn't you?" Rex asked.

"True..." Bruce was frowning at the picture. "But...! The only way to retrieve your body would be to wait until the furnace had cooled. As the metal cools it would turn from liquid to a solid... Like a stone!" He laughed as a thought occurred to him. "If you fell into it, Virgil, then your father could use the metal to make a sculpture of you. Then when anyone commented on it he could say that you helped create it." He put his hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture and deepened his voice in an unconvincing imitation of Jeff Tracy. "_Virgil put his body and soul into this piece_."

Rex examined the finished picture. "What would a psychiatrist make of that?"

Bruce took the picture from him. "Do you know what would just make this perfect?"

Virgil raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Bruce gave a wicked grin. "A picture of Max Watts turned to stone." He pinned the picture to the wall.

The second lot of photos had been completed and the Topratez team had decided that it was time for a break. Lisa and Winston came wondering over to the little group carrying full plastic cups.

"We're doing welding next." Lisa sipped at her coffee. She smiled. "I'll be able to show America how it's done properly."

"That's my girl," Butch said, obviously bursting with pride.

"You're a dark horse, Virgil Tracy," Winston stated. "Fancy keeping something like that from me of all people! You know I'm the soul of discretion."

Rex groaned and Virgil looked at the accountant. "I thought you said he could keep a secret."

"Winnie..." Rex moaned. "Not everyone knows. Virgil's still trying to keep it quiet."

Winston's face fell. "Oh. Sorry."

Virgil laughed. "It's okay, these guys all know."

Winston brightened and mimed a dramatic wiping of his brow.

"I told you he was Jeff Tracy's son," Rex told him. "So you owe me dinner."

Winston gave an equally dramatic sigh. "I suppose I do. Where do you want to go, Rexy?"

"I've always fancied La Gemme Cachée," Rex stated.

"Haven't we all, Sweetheart. But rumour has it that you've got to book at least three months in advance to get a table."

"I'd love to try there," Lisa reflected. "The food's supposed to be amazing... and horrendously expensive." She sighed. "Maybe some day when we win the lottery, huh, Honey?" She picked up her husband's hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Come on, people." One of the Topratez people clapped his hands to get their attention. "Time to get ready."

"Oops, I'm on." Lisa took one last mouthful of coffee and handed the half full cup to Butch. "Catch you later."

The Topratez man watched them go, then he turned back to the observers. "Please try to maintain complete silence. We need to be able to concentrate." He turned on his heel and stalked away.

"Sheesh," Bruce huffed. "They're still photos, not a video. Does he think he's painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or something?"

"'N' they take so long ta do anythin'," Butch moaned. "Virgil could draw the pitcha quicker th'n that."

"There's a challenge for you, Virgil," Bruce snickered. "Come up with an acceptable drawing before they've finished taking their photos."

Virgil grinned. "Deal." He began lightly sketching in the background.

Jim, one of ACE's extras came over to see what was going on. "I've never been so bored," he grumbled. "They tell you to stand here; then you're in the way and they tell you to stand over there. Then they decide that they do want you in shot, so tell you to get in the background; then they tell you that they don't want you so to get out of it. I wish they'd make up their minds." He noticed the sketch pad. "What are you drawing?"

"We've set Virgil a challenge," Bruce told him. "He's got to come up with an acceptable picture to advertise welding gear before you get the final photographs."

"My money's on you, Tracy." People started picking up pieces of equipment and setting up the shot and Jim was hailed by one of the crew. "Looks like the circus is about to begin again. See you guys later." He ambled off.

"He called you Tracy," Rex noted. "Does he know your identity too?"

"Tracy's a new nickname I've gained," Virgil explained. "Since that's what was reported in the papers last weekend."

Rex grinned. "Ah. That must make life simpler for you."

"It does..."

Virgil had finished much of the background by the time the first photographs were taken.

"That's great, Lisa," the director enthused. "But can you give us more sparks? Make it look like you're welding something."

Lisa turned off her welding torch, placed it on her bench, and faced him. "I beg your pardon," she asked, her voice muffled by her welding helmet.

"Uh, oh," Butch muttered. "'E said th' wrong thing."

"More sparks," the director cajoled. "Give me more sparks."

Lisa pushed the helmet off her face and glared at the man from Topratez. "What!?"

Thinking that the helmet was impairing her hearing somehow, the director repeated his request a third time. "Can you make more sparks so that it looks like you are actually welding rather than pretending?"

Virgil winced. "Ouch."

Lisa stood up straight. "I – am – welding. I – am – _not_ – pretending."

"Then let's see lots of sparks."

"I do NOT produce _lots of sparks_!" Lisa informed him and Butch inched forward on the bench. Wary of a possible altercation, Virgil placed his sketchpad down so he would be ready for action. He looked at Bruce and received a worried glance in reply.

"_Sparks_!" Lisa ranted. "This is a non-ferrous material and therefore, if welded _properly_ should not produce sparks. If you want me to produce sparks then give me something to grind. I will _not_ produce sparks when welding."

"Fine," the director grumbled. "Winston, will you take over the welding, please."

"Welding? Moi?" Winston looked astonished. "I'm sure I simply wouldn't know where to start."

"Anyone," the director begged. "Would anyone be willing to take over from Lisa?"

Lisa folded her arms and stood her ground. "Is ACE's name to be mentioned on this catalogue?"

"Yes. We are going to say that all photography and models were courtesy of Aeronautical Component Engineering."

"Then I am not going to let you do anything to slander ACE's good name!" Lisa stated. "I'm not going to let you make every engineering facility in the country think that ACE's welders can't even weld properly!"

"But..."

"But nothing. I am NOT picking up that welding torch again and I am _not_ moving from this spot until you agree that you won't do anything that will harm ACE's good reputation." She sat on the floor in front of her work bench, folded her legs and arms, and glared at the director; her jaw jutting out as if daring him to touch her.

Butch stood up. With the slow saunter of a gunslinger he walked over to where the director was standing over Lisa. People parted as he advanced, giving him clear passage. Careful not to do or say anything to upset the delicate but uneasy peace that still pervaded, Virgil and Bruce followed.

"'Scuse me." Butch placed a big hand on the director's shoulder and gently pulled him away. Then he knelt down in front of his wife. "I'm proud o' you. Now get off th' ground. Ya're gettin' Tuffas' clothes mucky."

"But they're doing it all wrong, Butch!"

"Yep. So we'll get Virgil ta ring Mr M. an' we'll tell 'im. He'll stop 'em." Butch held out his hand and, with a grateful smile, Lisa let him help her to her feet.

Virgil already had his phone out and was scrolling through the Ms. But he needn't have bothered...

"How are things going?"

"Ah..." the director began. "Mr Mickelson. We have a slight problem."

Hamish Mickelson frowned. "Problem, what problem?"

"He wants me to weld and make sparks," Lisa explained. "I do not make sparks when I'm welding," she repeated.

"Artistically speaking, it's more appealing," the director explained.

"Are you creating an artwork or a catalogue?" Mickelson asked.

"Er..." the director hesitated. "Catalogue."

"And aren't catalogues supposed to be factual? We don't want any false advertising, do we? Where's the Tuffas representative?"

Ethan Linsay hurried forward. "I'm here."

"It's ultimately your publication so it's your decision, but I'm warning you now, that if you do anything to damage ACE's good name we will withdraw all cooperation with Tuffas... and I will direct my purchasing manager to find another supplier."

Linsay's jaw dropped. ACE was Tuffas' biggest customer. If word got out that one of the premiere engineering workshops in the country had switched allegiances... He turned to the director. "I think that as Lisa clearly knows what she is doing, we should listen to her."

Tight lipped, the director nodded. "Very well."

Catastrophe averted, everyone returned to their places. Hamish Mickelson remained, keeping out of the way but his presence reminding the photographic crew that he would not tolerate any inaccuracies.

Virgil started sketching again. He'd finished a passable drawing before the director was satisfied with the welding shots and the Topratez team moved onto another location. "What do you think?"

"I think you should show it to your Uncle Hamish and get him to suggest to Tuffas that they should commission you to design the catalogue," Bruce stated.

Rex was surprised at Bruce's description of the man he knew as Mr Mickelson. "Uncle Hamish?"

"Honorary uncle," Virgil explained. "He and Father have known each other since before I was born, when they were in the Air Force."

Butch was admiring the picture. "That's m' Liesl," he said proudly. "Y've really gotta good likeness, Pal. Can I get a copy?"

"You can have the original." Virgil tore the page out of the sketchbook and slipped it into an envelope he had in his bag.

"Ta."

It was fairly late when all photography was completed and Virgil and his friends said good night to the Topratez team, ACE's extras, and Hamish Mickelson.

"I'm hungry," Lisa groaned as they left the building. "But I don't feel like cooking. Let's eat out, Butch. I'll pay." She grinned. "After all, I've got a nice little bonus coming in."

"You owe me dinner too," Rex told Winston. "Where are you taking me?"

"We've got plenty to celebrate so why don't we all go to La Gemme Cachée?" Virgil suggested. And then surprised everyone, including himself, by adding, "I'll pay."

"We couldn't let you do that, Virgil," Lisa protested. "It costs too much."

"Now that you're a supermodel," Bruce began, and Lisa giggled, "you'll have to learn that if a billionaire, or in this case the son of a billionaire, asks you out to dinner, you accept... Are you sure, Virgil?"

Virgil shrugged. "Why not?"

"Does that include us mere mortals too?"

"Of course. The more the merrier."

"But you can't get into La Gemme Cachée without a prior booking," Rex told him.

"Unless you have some influence in the town," Virgil responded. "Let's see what the Tracy name can do. And if that doesn't work we'll go to the nearest burger bar." He did a quick search on his phone for the number of the restaurant. "I'll make the call from the videophone in my car. Back in a minute."

It had taken a bit of haggling and some heavy name dropping, but he was back a short time later to report that a table for six at the back of the restaurant had been arranged. "We've got half an hour to get into our Sunday best."

"Half an hour!" Lisa gulped. "That's impossible."

"Yeah," Bruce agreed. "It'll take that long for Butch to squeeze into his dinner jacket." Butch guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder forcing Bruce to rub the affected area. "And for me to get to the hospital for help for my broken back."

"What about me, Virgil?" Winston asked. He was back in his glitter suit. "Do you think this is a bit too much?"

"You might need to tone it down... Just a little," Virgil suggested.

"Oh..." Winston was undaunted. "I'll leave the sunglasses at home then."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil was the first to step out of his taxi outside La Gemme Cachée. As he cooled his heels waiting for his friends, he wondered why he'd suggested this extravagancy. He knew it wasn't in character for him to go throwing his money about on something as trivial as a posh meal. Heck, it wasn't even as if he'd had a lot of experience of eating at establishments of this class. In general the Tracys preferred more intimate, down-to-earth eateries.

Bruce was the second person to arrive. "How do I look?" he asked as he pulled at the cuffs of his shirt. "I feel underdressed. My best suit was ruined at the Crump's anniversary party."

Virgil regarded his friend's apparel. "Your tie's a bit... shall we say, garish?"

"You mean common," Bruce grumbled as he scratched a bit of dirt off the aforementioned garment. "It's the best one I've got. The other's got blood on it. I haven't worked out if it's mine or yours."

"I thought you might have problems." Virgil checked that no one was looking and then pulled some material out of his pocket. "So I brought this one."

Bruce brightened and he pulled the bright orange tie from around his neck. "Thanks."

The Crumps, Lisa looking radiant in a cheap but attractive dress, and then Winston and Rex arrived. Winston, Virgil was glad to see, had managed to refrain from wearing anything that resembled a mirror ball, contenting himself with a purple, ruffed, silk shirt and matching trousers.

Virgil lead the way inside to where the maitre-d looked down his nose at them until Virgil showed him his credit card; both to confirm his real identity and to prove that he had the funds to pay for the meal.

But, before he had the chance to pocket the card again, Winston snatched it up. "A diamond card! You have to have enough money to buy all the artworks in Le Louvre before they'll even _consider_ offering you one."

"Or be the son of someone who can buy all the artworks in Le Louvre," Virgil added. "That's the only reason why I've got one."

"That may be so…" Winston gave a theatrical bow. "But, despite that, I prostrate myself before your esteemed personage."

Virgil groaned. "Get up, Winston."

Rex eyed Virgil up thoughtfully. "Do you employ the services of a good accountancy firm?"

"I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves," Lisa said. "Not talk shop."

The maitre-d lead them through the long, dark route through the restaurant to the rear. "I don't think we've made a very good impression," Bruce said as he took his seat.

"What I want to know, Virgil, darling," Winston began, still taken by the sight of the exclusive credit card, "is what someone with your money is doing working in a mere factory? You could choose to do anything, or nothing," he gave a wicked grin, "instead of preventing some poor, starving, recently graduated engineer from getting gainful employment so he can pay back his tuition fees."

"If you know him, he can have my job next year," Virgil rejoined. "I wanted to gain some practical experience before I start working for my father."

"Oh..." Lisa looked downcast. "Are you still planning on leaving us? Butch and I were saying, only tonight weren't we, Honey, how we were hoping you'd changed your mind."

Virgil shook his head. "No, it's something we've been planning for too long to give up now. Besides, I'm looking forward to it. As much as I enjoy working at ACE, and with you guys, I think I'll get a lot more job satisfaction out of this new career."

"What is it?" Winston asked, leaning forward, the purple ruffs of his shirt spilling onto the table.

"It's a secret," Bruce told him. "Virgil's been tight-lipped about it all year."

"So when are you leaving ACE to start this new venture?" Rex asked.

"I'm not sure now," Virgil admitted. "Gordon's accident has kind of put things back a few months."

Winston leant even closer, his eyes lighting up in open curiosity. "Gordon? Pray tell, who is Gordon?"

The wine waiter hovered at Virgil's elbow, so he ordered champagne.

"Champagne!" Winston clapped his hands. "This _is_ a celebration!"

Bruce leant closer to his host. "Are you feeling okay?" he whispered.

Virgil looked surprised. "Yeah... Why?"

Whatever Bruce had in mind wasn't revealed as they were interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with the menus. Virgil took one look at the prices and felt his pulses quicken. This was crazy!

His guests' menus had no such distractions. "What is this stuff?" Butch asked. "I can't understand it."

"Me neither," Lisa agreed. "I know poulet's chicken, but what's ag-knee-ow?"

"Agneau," Virgil corrected. "It's lamb."

She closed the menu. "You can order for me. So long as the animal lived and died humanely, I'll be happy."

"What about vegetables?" Bruce asked. "Do you know what they do to the heads of lettuces? And what about the ears of corn? And don't get me started on potatoes' eyes... "

"You shush," he was told. "I'll leave it in your capable hands, Virgil." Everyone else decided that this was a good idea and Virgil, playing it safe, made the selection.

The champagne arrived and Virgil proposed the toast. "To our two supermodels."

Lisa giggled and Winston actually blushed before raising his own glass. "To being alive!"

"I'll drink to that," Rex agreed, "and to the man who kept us alive." He saluted Virgil with his glass and then drank.

Lisa giggled again. "They're right. It does tickle your nose."

"Rather 'ave a beer," Butch grunted.

"Oh, Butch," she scolded. "Not here."

"I've got a toast," Bruce said. "Here's to Lisa for sticking to her guns and sticking up for ACE."

"Hear, hear," Virgil agreed.

"What does your father think of ACE being turned into a photographer's studio?" Rex asked.

"I don't know," Virgil admitted. "I haven't asked him. I don't even know if Uncle Hamish discussed it with him. He's had more important things to worry about."

Winston waved that topic away. "You still haven't told us who Gordon is..."

Someone kicked him under the table and he rubbed his ankle; a hurt expression on his face. "Who did that?"

"Winston..." Lisa hissed.

"It's okay, Lisa," Virgil reassured her. "Gordon's my brother. He's been injured in an accident and Father's been staying at the hospital with him."

"Your brother...?"

"The one who was in the hydrofoil crash," Bruce reminded him.

"Hydrofoil... Oh!" Winston looked mortified. "Your brother! Oh, dear me. I have rather put my foot in it." He fanned himself with his hand. "I could just crawl into that keyhole now. Do accept my sincerest apologies, Virgil."

"Accepted."

"That was months ago, wasn't it?" Rex recollected. "It sounds serious."

Virgil nodded. "He's almost completely paralysed."

The wine waiter appeared at his shoulder. "More champagne, Sir?"

Virgil hesitated. Too much alcohol now and he would have a legitimate, if not necessarily acceptable, excuse to not fly out early to the Willis tomorrow.

Family loyalty won through. "No, thanks. I'll make do with water." A carafe was produced and his glass was filled.

"For a minute there I thought you were going to say yes," Bruce noted.

"I'm flying tomorrow," Virgil reminded him. "I've got to have a clear head." He stared into the clear liquid in his glass.

Lisa looked over to where various couples were occupying the formerly empty floor in the centre of the restaurant. "Are any of you boys going to ask me to dance?"

"We would," Bruce said, "but we're scared your husband would never let us walk again."

She laughed. "I thought you'd know by now that my Butch would never do that."

"That's not the impression new guys get," Bruce teased. "One of the first introductions they get to ACE is Butch telling them to keep his hands off you."

"He doesn't..." Lisa turned to Butch. "You don't... Do you?"

Butch traced the outline of the cutlery. "Sometimes," he mumbled.

"He did to me," Winston remembered. "As if _I_ would! He sent me all of a quiver."

"On Virgil's first day," Bruce remembered, "he got right into his face to warn him off you. Right, Virgil?"

Virgil, still caught up in the mysteries held in his glass of water, didn't respond.

With raised eyebrows Bruce turned back to the rest of his friends. "We're not going to stop you two from hitting the floor if you want."

"Later," Lisa suggested. But then she stood, walked around the table, and laid a hand on Virgil's shoulder. "Virgil...?" He looked up. "Do you want to dance?"

"Huh...? Oh..." Virgil glanced at Butch who nodded his ascent. "Uh... Okay." He escorted her to the floor.

"What's wrong," Lisa asked. "You're miles away."

"Sorry," Virgil gave an apologetic grin. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

He sighed. "How I was dreading going to the Willis tomorrow."

"Dreading it? But you've always been so eager to see your family. What's changed? Is it Gordon?"

"In part," Virgil admitted. "It's obvious that, as things stand, he's not going to get better, but Father refuses to accept that. Scott and John tried to talk to him about how we were going to make life as easy as possible for him, and Father refused to discuss it. This whole thing's tearing my family apart and I don't want to be part of it... I think that's why I suggested coming here."

"Oh," Lisa looked downcast. "I'm so sorry... Why don't you have a break this weekend? Stay at home?"

"I can't do that. Father, Scott and John have barely left the hospital since the accident. Grandma only leaves to collect Gordon's friends and then take them home again, and to buy the groceries; and Alan's there every minute that he's not practising or racing."

"But you have a life outside your family," Lisa insisted. "I'm sure they'd understand. Have a break just for one weekend."

"But Gordon can't have a break _just for one weekend_," Virgil reminded her. "He's got to live with his illness every second of every day. I can't desert him just because I'm able to walk away."

"So you're still going to fly out tomorrow?"

Virgil nodded. "Yes."

Lisa bit her lip in thought. "Look... Butch and I both stay up late. If you need to talk when you come home on Sunday, come around. Sometimes it helps just to share your problems."

"Lisa... I don't want to put you out..."

"Listen to me, Virgil Tracy," she said sternly. "You won't be putting us out. After all you've done for the pair of us it's the least we can do. Phone us before you leave the hospital on Sunday if you want us to wait up."

The music finished. "Okay," Virgil agreed as he escorted his friend back to the table. "I'll see how things turn out." He held out her chair for her. "Thanks."

She fixed the rest of the men at the table with a cheerful smile. "I hope you are all going to take me for a twirl about the floor later."

"It would be a delight and a pleasure," Winston agreed. "I love to dance, but my little puppy dog has four left paws."

"Me too," Bruce agreed. "You and I can sit back and watch the rest, Rex."

Lisa gave Butch an expectant look. He sighed. "Okay," he grunted.

Virgil couldn't help smiling as he watched the pair of them walk out on the dance floor. An idea came to him and he called the waiter over. Reaching into his wallet he extracted a large denomination note. "Can you ask the pianist to play _Love Overcomes All_ next?" he asked.

The waiter bowed. "I will ascertain if he knows the piece."

"It's Lisa and Butch's song," Virgil explained to Winston and Rex. "I was supposed to perform it for them at their wedding anniversary party."

"Instead we got beaten up," Bruce remembered.

The waiter was back a short time later, Virgil's note held apologetically before him on a tray. "I am afraid, Mr Tracy, that Samuel is not acquainted with the tune."

"Oh." Disappointed, Virgil took back the proffered note.

"Why don't you play it, Virgil?" Bruce suggested.

"I couldn't do that!"

"You could, Sweetheart." Winston sat forward. "You make that distressing old piano in the social club room sing. Imagine what you could do with an instrument of that calibre," he indicated the jet black grand piano. "He is a maestro," he told the waiter.

"I'll say," Bruce confirmed to the man who was looking doubtful. "Better than your guy."

"No, I'm not," Virgil protested. But he looked hopefully at the waiter.

The man was looking sick, as if it was only his stiffly starched shirt that was keeping him upright. But, recognising that Virgil was the son of an important and wealthy man, he nodded. "If you would accompany me, Sir."

Unsure that he was doing the right thing, Virgil followed the man across the room. The waiter whispered something into the pianist's ear and the musician looked at Virgil, his misgivings clear on his face.

"I've passed my Trinity College exams," Virgil said, seeking to reassure him.

The pianist nodded, finished his piece of music, and vacated the piano stool.

Virgil took his place, resisted the impulse to play a set of warm up scales, took a deep breath, and began...

Butch and Lisa had thought that their dance was over. Butch was escorting his wife off the floor when they heard the familiar tune. Smiling, they turned to face each other, and, holding each other close, began dancing again.

Virgil could see Butch's lips moving and decided that the big man was crooning the words into his wife's ear. He relaxed and let himself get caught up in the music and the beauty of the piano that was producing it. Closing his eyes, he remembered all the times he'd heard his mother play that very piece...

The song was over. The audience turned to applaud the pianist and Butch and Lisa followed suit, their faces registering surprise when they realised who had serenaded them.

"Thank you," Virgil said to the original pianist and left the note on the piano stool as he stood. He wandered over to where the Crumps were waiting for him. "Was that okay?"

"Thank you," Lisa kissed him on the cheek. "That was wonderful."

Butch gave Virgil what was, for him, a restrained punch on the arm. "You finally gotta do it, huh?"

The three of them returned to the table to enjoy the rest of the evening.

When it was time to return home, Bruce had insisted on sharing a taxi with Virgil and paying the fare. "It's the least I can do after the evening you've given us." And Virgil, having just paid out the equivalent of more than two weeks worth of ACE's wages, had agreed.

He was the first to be dropped off at home. "It's been a great evening, Virgil," Bruce said as his friend got out of the taxi. "Thanks."

Virgil bid him good night and headed into his apartment. It had been, he thought, a fun night.

He didn't realise that that was the last fun he was going to have for a while...

_To be continued..._


	18. A Quiet Request

**18: A Quiet Request**

When Virgil eventually arrived at the Willis Institute's airfield the following day, he was met by John and Scott. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Waiting for you," Scott replied. "You're late." He noticed Virgil's barely concealed yawn. "Been out partying?"

"Not exactly," Virgil responded, side-stepping the question even though there was an element of truth to it. "I'll ask again; what are you guys doing here?"

"And we'll say again: waiting for you," John echoed his brother. "We didn't want to leave until you got here."

"Leave?" Virgil frowned. "Where are you going?"

"To initiate stage two of our great plan," Scott stated. "That's assuming that you've got stage one."

"I've got it," Virgil grumbled. He'd put the parcels into his plane earlier in the week and had checked that they were still there before flying out this morning. "But you still haven't told me why."

"It's a surprise." Scott grinned. "Where's your trophy?"

Virgil had been so dreading coming to the Willis this morning that he'd nearly forgotten to bring his award from ACE. "In the plane."

"Well, get it out here!" John exclaimed. "The only reason why we haven't already left is because we want to see it."

Virgil felt a warm feeling wash through him at the obvious pleasure his brothers were getting from seeing him receive some recognition. "I was going to leave it in the plane until after I'd taken your stuff up to the room, but there's nothing stopping you from coming in here to have a look." He led the way inside his aeroplane and his siblings bounded in after him. Carefully removing the award from where he'd stowed it, Virgil placed it on one of the parcels. "There it is."

Scott gave a low whistle and rotated the prize so he could see it from all angles. "They've put a lot of effort into making this."

"Has it got everyone's signature on it?" John asked.

"Everyone who was on the flight."

John's finger traced the recipient's name. "Virgil Tracy... Did it seem odd to have your real name written up for everyone at ACE to see?"

"It did a bit," Virgil confessed. "So I nearly told them the truth when they presented it to me."

"But you didn't want anyone to think that you were a spy for the boss?" Scott guessed.

"Yes. Because of this, and the newspaper reports, some of them have started calling me 'Tracy'." Virgil laughed. "They think it's a nickname."

"It's a better name than 'Tancy'," Scott said.

Virgil nodded. "I'll be the first to agree with you."

"That is a wonderful gesture," John indicated the award, "and well deserved."

"John's right," Scott agreed. "Well done, Virg." He patted his brother on the back.

John began examining the parcels. "Judging by what you've got here our little plan should work."

"Is it the best you could get, Virg?" Scott asked crouching down beside his brother.

"It's the best on the market at the moment," Virgil told him, "It's so good that I nearly bought two; one for you guys and one for my room on the island."

"What stopped you?" John asked.

"The company's latest model's due out in a couple of months and, by all accounts, it's supposed to be even better. So I've got a set on order."

"Good." Scott stood. "Come on, John. Now that we know that Virgil's here and that that's here, we can go."

"Don't forget to install it properly," John reminded Virgil. "We want total immersion. Have you got your tools?"

"I've got them. It's not as if I haven't done this before."

"Just checking."

"Talking of checking; have you checked with the hospital that they don't mind my drilling holes in their walls?"

"Not a problem," Scott told him. "When your patient's the son of one of the world's wealthiest men, they'll let you do anything short of ripping down the building. Having money has its perks, even if it has its limitations."

"How long are you guys going to be away for anyway?" Virgil asked as he followed them out of his aeroplane.

"We'll be back before you leave tomorrow," Scott reassured him. "We didn't want to leave Gordon and Father alone for too long. They're depressing each other."

"Gordon's been a bit down all week," John added. "Diane and Rick have been here the last couple of days and we were hoping they might cheer him up a bit, but it doesn't seem to have worked. They're going to have to leave soon, so that'll only leave you and Dad to keep him entertained."

Virgil nodded his understanding. "At least he should get a kick out of telling me what to do when I'm installing stage one of your great plan... Whatever it is."

Scott nudged his brother. "We're wasting time, John. Let's go."

"Yeah," John agreed. "See you tomorrow, Virgil."

"'Kay..." Virgil watched as his brothers climbed into Scott's sleek jet and taxied out to the runway. Then he turned his attention to the five boxes in his plane's hold. While the parcels weren't heavy individually, they were unwieldy, which meant he'd probably have to make five trips. _His_ great plan had been to get his brothers to help carry them up to Gordon's room, but that plan was disappearing due south. He could place the boxes on the travelator, but by the time he'd got the fifth one safely installed, the first box could have been anywhere in the complex.

With a sigh he put one of the parcels on the ground, locked down the plane, and then picked the box up again. As he started walking towards the travelator, he reflected that it had been an expensive week. Not only had there been the costs of last night's festivities, he'd also had to make these purchases on Scott's orders. Not that he begrudged doing anything to help Gordon, he just couldn't see what use they would be.

---F-A-B---

"Hello, Virgil." Diane's smile didn't seem as bright as usual when he ran into them coming out of Gordon's ward. "How are you?"

Virgil balanced the box he was carrying on a chair. "Fine, thanks. How are you two?"

"We'd be great if we didn't have to go back to work," Rick responded. "Blame Diane, she's on weekend shift."

"And you've got to catch up on the work you haven't been able to do because you've been visiting Gordon," his sister reminded him.

"How is he?" Virgil asked, indicating his brother's room.

"He..." Diane bit her lip. "He seems a little depressed. You'll have to try and cheer him up, Virgil."

"I'll do my best, but if you two can't do that, I don't know what chance I've got," Virgil admitted. "Ask any of my brothers, they'll be glad to tell you that I'm not known for my ability to tell jokes."

"I'm sure that just being here will cheer him up," Diane soothed. "What have you got in the box? Something for Gordon?"

Virgil peeled back the paper protecting the parcel. "This is box number one of 'his master's voice'... My masters being Scott and John. I've got no idea what they've got planned once I've installed them."

"We'll have to get Gordon to tell us next time we visit," Diane said. "Unfortunately we're not going to be back for a couple of weeks. With illnesses and leave, we're short staffed at my hospital, and Rick's got a backlog of work to catch up on."

"And looming deadlines," Rick grumbled.

Grandma bustled out of Gordon's room. "Are you both ready...? Oh! Hello, Virgil. You're late today."

Virgil felt another yawn creep across his face. "I was held up."

"And I'm holding up Rick and Diane, so we'd better go. See what you can do about cheering Gordon up while I'm gone. He's not very happy today."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Do you have to make all that noise?"

Virgil looked down over his shoulder from where he was using an electric screwdriver to screw a bracket on to the wall. "Sorry, Father. But I'm only following orders."

Jeff Tracy frowned. "Whose orders?"

Virgil stepped down off the small stepladder and picked up one of the five speakers he was installing around Gordon's room. "Your two eldest sons."

"So they get you to make that racket at a time when they are conveniently out of town," Jeff grumbled. "Did they tell you where they were going?"

"No." Virgil attached the speaker to the bracket. "Does that look about right, Gordon?"

Gordon, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, seemed totally uninterested in the new fittings that were being installed in his room. The only sign of life was his good hand, which was continually clutching and releasing his bedspread.

Virgil shifted the stepladder, made a few calculations and measurements, and then fired up his drill again.

Jeff had had enough. "I'm going for a walk," he growled. He indicated his watch. "Let me know when you've finished."

Virgil watched him stomp out of the room thinking that while everyone had been careful to warn him about Gordon's obvious depression, no one had thought to alert him to his father's bad temper. "He's not in the best of moods today, is he, Gordon?" There was no reply from the bed. "Do you mind if I carry on drilling?" He took the silence to be an affirmation and continued his work.

Once the five speakers were carefully spaced about the room, so the optimal sound was directed to the head of the bed, Virgil sat in the chair by Gordon's good hand and plugged in his portable music player. "We'd better test that I've done everything correctly. What do you want to listen to?"

Gordon's first word of Virgil's visit was barely audible. "Nadin'."

"Nothing? How about I choose something and play it? Just so I know I've optimised the sound?" Virgil chuckled. "You know what Scott's like if you don't carry out his instructions to the letter." He received no response from Gordon so he selected a piece of music at random, played it until he was satisfied with the sound quality of the set-up, and then shut the player down. "How has your week been?" he asked as he put the device back in his pocket.

"Szame… Allbwayz da szame."

"How are you getting on with Catherine and Rose?"

"K."

"Has Mr Millington said anything about your progress?"

"Nao."

"Alan says he'll be visiting on Monday."

...

"Do you have any ideas what Scott and John are up to?"

"Ndgoyin' demszelvs."

"Enjoying themselves?" Virgil frowned. John and Scott had seemed to be cheerful, but he'd assumed that was because they were getting ready to execute their "great plan," not because they were simply looking forward to some hedonistic activity. "Enjoying themselves doing what?"

"Dundo."

Virgil looked around at his handiwork. "They must have something planned; otherwise they wouldn't have got me to buy those speakers for you..." He remembered something. "I'd better let Father know that I've finished..."

"Dao yo noo whad da wirzt szond n da ol vwerl diz?"

Virgil tried to understand what his brother had been said and failed. "I beg your pardon."

Gordon was staring at the uniform tiles of the ceiling. He had to repeat his sentence several times, becoming more and more frustrated, before Virgil, with the aid of the texter, was able to interpret his words. "_Do you know what the worst sound in the whole world is?_"

Virgil the musician could think of several candidates for such a dubious honour, but instead he replied with: "No? What?"

"'Erin Did gwy..." The silence that followed gave Virgil the chance to rework the sentence into something coherent in his mind. "_Hearing Dad cry…_"

Disbelief made Virgil wonder if he'd understood correctly. "Cry? Dad??"

Still staring at the ceiling, Gordon continued speaking as if his monologue was intended only for that featureless surface. "_Listening to him beg me to wake up... Lying here, screaming at him that that's what I was trying to do… Telling him that there's a brick wall lying on me and I can't move… Telling him I can hear him, but I can't see... I can't talk... … I can't do anything…_"

Virgil listened, horrified by what he was hearing. He didn't speak, even when Gordon's words were unintelligible. It was only through intense concentration and a lot of guess work, that he was able to follow Gordon's rambles.

And Gordon had a lot to say. It was as if he had been saving up a week's worth of words for this one speech. "..._All I wanted to do was to hold him; to tell him that I loved him; to tell him that I didn't want him to suffer because of me... I wanted to feel him hold me; I wanted him to protect me... I wanted to tell him I was scared... I wanted to tell him not to cry._"

"I never knew he cried," Virgil admitted.

"_Only when we were alone. Someone would come in and then I'd hear the rustle of a newspaper._" Gordon's good thumb twitched.

Virgil sat in silence. He remembered one day, it seemed a long time ago now, when Gordon was still in the coma. He'd arrived in this room to find his father sitting there reading a magazine. At the time he'd thought it slightly odd because Jeff had been determined to keep communicating with his injured son, and yet there he'd been, sitting silently, holding the magazine just that little bit too high… "I wish I'd realised."

"_I heard other things… I heard you guys talking… I heard Alan apologise over and over again… I heard you guys say things to me that you'd never say when I was awake... I heard your secrets to me... and about me."_

Virgil tried to remember what he'd said during those dark days. "Were you in pain?"

"_No. You can't feel pain if the only things you are aware of are fear and frustration. Now that's all I know."_

"I wish I could help you, Gordon."

"_You can."_ Gordon's thumb twitched twice.

"I can? How?"

Gordon turned dull eyes to face him. _"I'm not getting better."_

Virgil felt a chill overcome him. "Has Mr Millington said something?"

"_He's on vacation. Left yesterday. Won't be back for a week."_

"But did he say something about your prognosis before he left?"

"_No. But I know that this is it. It's not going to get any better."_

"You don't know that, Gordon. None of us do. Who knows what's around the corner."

"_Then why aren't I improving? Why can't I do more than I can?"_

"I don't know."

"_Face it. I'm trapped in this bed for the rest of my life..."_

"Not necessarily..."

"_I can't eat properly. I can't wash myself. I can't walk. I can't turn the pages of a book. All I am is a thumb."_

"No, you're not. It's not as if you can't communicate with us..."

"_Most people can't understand me. You're struggling now."_

"Yes, I am," Virgil admitted. "I'm sorry."

"_I'm sick of this. I'm sick of the boredom. I'm sick of being told what to do and being made to do it. __I'm sick of physio. I'm sick __of people pushing and pulling me about like a puppet."_

_"Hang in there, Gordon. It can't last forever."_

"_And what will happen when Mr Millington finally decides that he can't do anything for me? Who will look after me now I can't look after myself?"_

"We'll all help."

"_Is that what you think? How long will it take before you're tired of caring for me and you banish me into a nursing home?"_

"We wouldn't do that."

"_In that case have you thought about what you are going to have to do? Are you going to feed me? Are you going to wash me? Are you going to change my catheter? Or are you planning on compromising security and employing a stranger to look after all my needs?"_

Virgil steeled himself. "We'll do whatever's best for you."

"_Have you thought about how many years I will have to live like this?"_

"No... I've been telling myself that you're going to get better."

"_But I'm not getting better, Virgil! And I'm going to be trapped like this for too many years... Unless you help me..."_ Gordon's thumb twitched again and settled into that old hypnotic rhythm. _"Help me escape. Help me out of this nightmare. Help me find peace."_

Virgil felt the chill turn to ice. "Gordon..."

"_Think how good it'll be, without having me as an albatross around your neck"_

"I've never thought of you like that."

"_Everyone else does."_

"No, they don't!"

"_Scott and John do. They're off enjoying themselves..."_

"No, they're not. Whatever it is they're doing, they're doing for you."

There was a twisted laugh. _"Is that what they told you? Do you know what they told me?"_

"No."

"_They said they were sick of looking at my ugly face so they were going away."_

Virgil had no reason to doubt that this was true and was shocked. Not because his brothers had made such a statement, but because of the way that Gordon had misinterpreted it. "They probably did. But, Gordon, they were teasing you. We've always said things like that to each other. It doesn't mean that we mean it."

"_They meant it."_

"I don't believe it."

"_And Dad... How long has he been gone now?"_

Virgil looked at his watch. "About an hour and a half."

"_See! He used to only go for half hour walks. Now he doesn't want to be near me. He doesn't want to see me like this."_

"That's not why he's not here! You heard him, he didn't want to stay here and listen to the noise I was making. He was going to come back when I told him I'd finished and I haven't done that yet. It's my fault that he's not here, not his, so I'll call him now..." Virgil lifted his arm so he could speak into his watch.

"_No! Not yet."_

Virgil lowered his arm again. "Gordon... Please... Don't ask me to 'help' you. I can't."

"_Yes, you can. You're clever with your hands. You can make something. Something with a switch I can push with my thumb. You don't even have to be here when I do it. I'll make sure it's some time when you're at work."_

"Think about what you're saying!"

"_I've done nothing but think. That's all I can do."_

"You're asking me to help you give up!"

"_I'm asking to be set free! I'm asking to end my life so everyone I care about can live theirs!"_

"You're quitting! You are not a quitter, Gordon!"

"_I'm not quitting. I'm accepting the inevitable."_

"This is not inevitable..."

"_I'm asking you to help stop Dad from suffering. Imagine, Virgil... Imagine not having to fly out here every weekend."_ Virgil felt his face start to burn as he remembered how this had been his dearest wish last night. _"Imagine Dad finally getting International Rescue operational. Imagine Grandma cooking in her own kitchen. Imagine Scott being able to fly whenever and wherever he wanted to. Imagine John being able to stay up all night looking at the stars. Imagine Alan winning the world championship without worrying about his crippled brother..."_

Virgil saw a counterargument. "Imagine Alan not being able to compete in his final races because he's so bereft at losing his 'crippled' brother. Imagine everyone hating me when they discover that I was the one who 'helped' you. Imagine me ending up in jail!"

"_I'll sign a paper saying I forced you..."_

"How, Gordon?! I'm sorry, but you can barely hold a pen, let alone sign your name. And do you honestly think your signature would absolve me from blame?"

"_No one would blame you."_

"I'd blame me! Imagine me living the rest of my life knowing that I was the one who..."

"_But why should I live? What use am I?"_

"You're an important part of our family."

"_I'm stopping our family from living their lives!"_

"We wouldn't be a family without you here."

"_You'd all survive. We survived Ma's death and grew stronger."_

"And do you remember the trauma we went through at the time? Don't ask us to go through that again."

"_What about International Rescue? That's on hold while I'm still alive."_

"That's only on hold until you're well enough to come home."

"_But why should people die just because I'm alive?"_

"That's not happening. We weren't going to start operations until next year anyway."

"_We're two months behind schedule!"_

"Have you honestly thought what your death would do to us, Gordon? Do you have any idea what we went through when the radio reported that you were dead? When there was a chance that you wouldn't live? You said yourself that you heard Father cry when he was begging you to wake up. He wants you to live! We want you to live. I want you to live!!" Just as he had when his brother was in the coma, Virgil placed his hand so it covered Gordon's twitching thumb. "Please, Gordon. Don't ask me to do this... Don't give up..."

Gordon looked down at the hand that covered his own…

...

...

...

"Pweez, Brrchill."

"No!" Virgil launched himself out of his chair. He brushed past the surprised nurse who'd come in to check up on the patient, and ran in to the family's unit where he fell into a chair, burying his head in his hands. "No, no, NO!!"

A door opened.

"Virgil...?" It was his father's voice. "What's wrong?"

"We've lost him," Virgil moaned into his palms. "Gordon's gone."

Jeff misunderstood the anguish in Virgil's words. He collapsed into the chair next to his son. "What?!"

"He's changed." Still not looking at his father, Virgil sat up. "It's like he's a stranger. I don't know him anymore."

Jeff exhaled a sigh of relief. "I wish you'd choose your words more carefully, Son."

"Huh?" Finally Virgil looked at his father. If Gordon was behaving like a stranger, then Jeff Tracy was looking like one, and Virgil wondered when he'd aged so much.

Jeff put an arm about his son's shoulders. "What happened?"

As he looked into the pale, careworn face, Virgil knew he couldn't tell his father about Gordon's request. "He... He's putting a negative slant on to everything. I was going to call you when I'd finished, but we got talking and I never got the chance. He's interpreted your absence to mean that you don't want to be with him anymore. But it was my fault, not yours!"

"It's okay," Jeff soothed. "What else?"

"He's talked himself into believing that Scott and John have left because they're tired of being with him."

Jeff frowned. "Why would he think that?"

"Did one of them say something about being sick of looking at him, as a joke?"

"Ah..." Jeff thought. "I don't remember. You boys are always saying things like that to each other, so I didn't notice."

"That's what I tried to tell him, but he refuses to listen to me."

"What else?"

Virgil hesitated. Everything else he could remember was related to Gordon's plea for help. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Come on, Virgil, tell me. What else did he say?"

"Uh... I can't remember." Desperate to escape the questions, Virgil leapt to his feet. "I'm going for a walk." Without a backward glance at his puzzled and concerned father, he strode out the door, into the hospital corridor and through the warren that made up the Willis Institute.

He found himself standing beside his aeroplane: his ticket out of this nightmare. He leant against the cold metal and remembered his brother's plea: _"Help me, Virgil... Help me find peace."_

Peace for whom?

Virgil reached out for the lock and stopped. If he were to leave now, Gordon would probably think that he'd accepted the challenge. How would that make the invalid feel? Pleased that he was finally seeing the chance to end his frustrating life? Frightened that he'd made the wrong decision? Upset that one of his brothers would willingly assist him to end it all?

Virgil knew he couldn't be the one to do that.

But going back to Gordon's room was equally unpalatable. What would he face there? Pleading and hopeful looks? Subtle hints? Direct demands? Further questions from his father?

Virgil took himself for a walk around the grounds.

He missed lunch at the institute, instead making himself a sandwich at the Satellite. Even then he couldn't eat it, so he gave it to some birds who'd been watching him from their perch on the back fence.

He arrived back at Gordon's room late in the afternoon. His grandmother had returned from taxi duty and she shot him with an annoyed look. "Where have you been? I'm told you've barely been here all day."

Virgil shrugged, unable to look her or anyone else in the eye. "About... I had things to do."

Jeff was looking concerned. "Anything we can help with?"

"No." Virgil said nothing to Gordon, and Gordon didn't speak to Virgil.

It was through sheer willpower that Virgil forced himself to stay in Gordon's room for much of the next 24 hours. He found himself counting down the minutes until he could leave and resolved to contact the Crumps as soon as he was leaving the hospital. He needed to talk to someone impartial.

In contrast to the sombre mood that filled the room, Scott and John were in high spirits when they returned. "I hope everyone's had a good weekend?" Scott stated. "Because we've had a brilliant one. Right, John?"

"I'll say," John agreed as he placed a black box beside Gordon's bed. "It's amazing what you can fit into a little over 24 hours."

Scott chuckled. "Especially if you don't get any sleep. Just as well I flew us back here."

"You're a fine one to talk about not getting any sleep. What time did you get to bed last night?"

Scott shrugged. "The time zones had messed up my body clock." He eyed up the speakers. "Looks good, Virg. How do they sound?"

Virgil shrugged. "Okay."

"I hope it's better than just 'okay'." Scott grinned at John. "Shall we do it?"

John's grin was equally manic. "Let's do it."

"Right." Scott pulled a music player from out of his pocket. "We've got something for you, Gordo. And, if Virgil's done his job right, I think you'll like it."

Gordon looked at Virgil, but made no comment. His thumb twitched.

Scott was looking around the bed. "Where's the plug, Virg?"

"Here," Virgil held out the connection to the speakers.

"Great. Thanks." Scott plugged the music player in. "Ready, Gordon?"

"Come on, Scott," John complained. "I want to see if it works. Turn it on!"

"We've got to set the scene first," Scott retorted. "Close your eyes, Gordon. Close them and relax."

Gordon stared at him mutely and then, figuring that he didn't have the energy or inclination to argue, obeyed.

"Good. Now imagine that you are on Tracy Island. You're lying on the beach. There are gulls flying overhead. Up the hill behind you is the house. At your feet is the Pacific Ocean..."

Gordon opened his eyes.

"It won't work if you don't close them, Gordon," John scolded.

Gordon scowled at him before closing his eyes again.

Scott pressed play. John pressed a switch on his mystery box.

Out of Virgil's five speakers washed the sounds of the shore. The ebb and flow of the waters on the sands, the cry of sea birds, a gentle zephyr whispering through the trees...

Virgil frowned. He could almost swear that he could smell the salty odour of sea spray. He looked at John who smiled at him and mimed wafting a scent out of the black box.

There was a sigh of deep contentment from the bed. Surprised, Virgil looked at Gordon. His younger brother's features had relaxed, as had his twitching thumb. All the stresses, fears and frustrations appeared to have melted away. He sighed again.

Now Virgil switched his attention to his two elder brothers and saw twin looks of astonishment. That John and Scott had been sure that their plan would work had been obvious. It was the way it had worked so quickly and completely that had surprised them.

A soft snore directed Virgil's attention away from his siblings. Jeff Tracy sat slumped in his chair, even more relaxed than his bedridden son. The years he'd aged in the last few weeks had seemed to have melted away.

Scott grinned at John, tapped Virgil on the knee to get his attention, and then gestured that they should all retire to the unit. "Back soon, Grandma," he whispered as he walked past. "You can keep an eye on the sleeping beauties." When the door had closed behind them he and John shared a high-five. "Are we good or what!?"

"We're good," John agreed.

"Do you two realise what you've done?" Virgil asked. "I think you may have just gone some way towards saving Gordon's life." His brothers laughed. "I'm serious!"

Scott was still on a high. "Well, that's International Rescue's job, isn't it?"

"Yep," John crowed. "Today: Gordon. Tomorrow: the world!" Still grinning like maniacs the pair of them collapsed into chairs.

Virgil couldn't destroy their euphoria with his fears and concerns. "Where have you been?"

"Tracy Island," Scott replied. "Recording the sounds and smells of the ocean."

"And sights," John added. "Don't forget the sights."

"No, I can't forget part three of our great plan," Scott agreed. "We'll need your help again, Virg."

"Yes," John nodded. "Lie down on the floor."

Virgil stared at them. "What?"

"Lie down on the floor," Scott demanded. "I assume it's clean and you haven't been spilling anything on it."

"Of course not..." With some reluctance Virgil did as he was told. "Now what?"

John had retrieved another, larger, bottomless box that appeared to be hollow. "We stick this over your head."

"What!?"

"Relax," Scott soothed. "It won't hurt. We've made it for Gordon, and you know we won't do anything to hurt him. We just want to fine tune it to make sure that it wasn't damaged in transit."

"If you were Gordon and Alan there's no way I'd submit to this," Virgil growled. "But since it's you two..." he lay back and let them place the box over his upper torso. "It's dark in here," he noted, his voice sounding hollow.

"That's because we haven't switched it on yet," John told him. "Are you ready?"

"Ready," Virgil responded, wondering what he was letting himself in for.

For a moment nothing appeared to happen. Then Virgil became aware that the box's interior was growing lighter. The area around him appeared to be infused with a calming blue light. He uttered an exclamation when a fish swam into view and darted away again.

"Have you just met Freddy?" John asked.

"Is that the name of the fish?"

"Yeah, he was following us about when we were filming. What else can you see?"

Virgil looked 'up'. "I can see the sun through the water. And if I look down... I can see rocks and corals," the fish darted back into view, "and Freddy."

He heard Scott's voice. "Let's see how you go 'swimming' about the place. Give me your right hand." Virgil felt something slip over his thumb. "Okay, now to turn right move your thumb right..."

Virgil obeyed and the video's view changed; he was now parallel to the shore. "Can I swim forward?"

"Lift your arm," John instructed, "but remember you're Gordon. You don't have a lot of mobility. Too much movement and you'll crash into a rock."

Virgil raised his arm slightly and the scene appeared to move forward. "This is amazing!"

"Do you think Gordon will like it?"

"It's not as good as the real thing, but I'm sure he'll appreciate the effort you've put into it." Virgil's world went black again and the box was lifted off his head. He blinked against the bright, artificial light. "So is that what you've been doing this weekend? Filming?"

"We've got ten hours worth of footage," Scott said smugly. "Some of it we got by scuba diving and others by trailing a camera beside the boat. And we've got Gordon's WASP friends filming different marine ecosystems. They were glad to help."

Virgil stood up and brushed his clothes down. "Hang on," he said as a thought came to him. "Are you sure that's safe? The flickering of the screen won't bring on epileptic seizures, will it?"

"We were worried about that when we ran the idea past Brains," John admitted. "But he made sure that the refresh rate is high enough so that that won't be a problem. He's been fantastic designing this and the sea sponge."

"Sea sponge?"

"That box that gives off the smell of the sea. It absorbs odours like a sponge and then emits them when you want them. We might not be able to take Gordon to the sea, but we'll do our darndest to bring the sea to Gordon."

"We did consider making a virtual reality mask shaped like a diving mask," Scott explained as he reclaimed his seat. "But we thought that might be too uncomfortable for him to wear for long periods, so we came up with the box idea… Our next goal is to get him out of that bed and give him some form of independent mobility. Alan reckons he's got an answer to that problem and he's going to bring it when he next visits, but goodness knows what he's got in mind."

Virgil settled into his seat. "I hope Gordon appreciates all the effort you guys are putting into giving him a better quality of life."

"Talking of life," Scott leant forward. "What did you mean by us saving Gordon's, Virg?"

"I... I meant that he's been really depressed this weekend."

"We told you that before we left yesterday," John reminded him.

"I remember that, but I don't think you realise just how depressed he really was... Which of you two told him you were leaving because you were sick of looking at him?"

"Uh..." John looked at Scott. "I don't know... It might have been you..." he frowned. "Or was it me? I can't remember." He shrugged. "Why?"

"Because Gordon had convinced himself that you meant it."

His brothers burst out laughing. "Come on, Virgil," John laughed. "Gordon knows us better than that."

"Yes," Scott confirmed. "It was just a throwaway line. If we hadn't said it to him, he probably would have said that he was glad to see the back of us for the same reason. You know how it works."

"I know how it normally works," Virgil insisted. "But I'm telling you that this time he thought you meant it. Look... Maybe it's because I'm not here full time that I'm seeing things differently, but I don't think you realise how much this paralysis is getting Gordon down. You can't just walk out on him with a flippant line and expect him to be content. He needs your continual support. He needs to know that you're always there for him."

John scratched his head. "But we have always been there for him."

"I know that, but he thinks you've grown sick and tired of it. He thought you'd gone away this weekend to have fun and to forget about him."

Both brothers looked sheepish. "I did set up my telescope," John admitted. "That's why I didn't get much sleep last night."

"I took Thunderbird One for a test flight," Scott added. "To see how she performed; which, incidentally, was great. But that was work, not fun."

"Yeah, right," John scoffed. "You should have heard the whoops over the radio, Virgil. Admit it, Scott. You were joy riding."

"I was not!"

"You were having fun!"

"Look!" Virgil held up his hand. "It doesn't matter what you did this weekend. You needed the break and I'm not going to say that you shouldn't have taken the time out while you had the opportunity. But you should have told Gordon what your plans were. You've got to promise that you won't leave him again, and if you do, you tell him exactly what you're going for."

John gave a sombre nod. "Agreed."

But Scott wasn't convinced. "There you go again, Virg, insisting that we promise you something. Why? You know you can trust us."

"Don't promise me," Virgil snapped. "Promise Gordon!"

"Okay, okay, I promise I'll promise Gordon that we won't leave him again. Right...?" Scott gave Virgil a strange look. "Just what happened this weekend?"

"He was talking about dying." Virgil took a deep breath. "He wishes he was dead."

"Dead?" John stared at him. "No way! Not Gordon. He's always been so full of life…" A faraway look appeared in his eyes and he glanced at Scott. "Until recently…"

"He didn't say this in front of Father, did he?" Scott asked.

"No. He'd gone for a walk while I was installing the speakers; when I'd finished we, that's Gordon and I… talked."

"Did you tell Father what you and Gordon were talking about?"

"No." Virgil shook his head. "I escaped into here when the nurse arrived to work on Gordon. Then Father arrived and asked me what was wrong. I couldn't tell him of course, so I went for a walk myself." He paused. "It was a long one."

"Dad's another problem," John mused. "He went out like a light when we played the audio. If you ask me, he's heading for a breakdown. I hate to think how he'll react if Mr Millington confirms that Gordon's not going to get any better."

"He needs to get away from here, even if only for a couple of days." Scott sat back and thought. "The question is how do we get him away from Gordon?"

"Another question," Virgil added, "is do we? In Gordon's present state of mind we could be making things worse. And if Gordon gets worse, then Father will get worse."

"Well, he's not going to get any better if he doesn't have a break soon," John said. "And it's not only his health I'm worried about. I was reading the latest paper while you were filing the flight plan, Scott, and there was a whole article about how the value of Dad's companies are falling because he hasn't been seen to be at the controls for the last two and a half months."

"That doesn't matter," Scott replied, "he's got plenty of secured funds. So what if he's only a multi-millionaire instead of a billionaire?"

"Personally, nothing. It wouldn't even matter if he lost all of his money," John rejoined. "We'd all be able to earn enough to support ourselves. But what about International Rescue? You don't run an organisation like that on the smell of an oily rag. All our plans, all the money he's already spent; could mean nothing. And that would be Dad's dream destroyed, not to mention what it would do to Gordon if he thinks the end of International Rescue is his fault..." His phone rang and he answered it. "Hiya, Kiddo… We're all here… Just a second and I'll slot you into the phone so we can all see your ugly face."

Virgil rolled his eyes.

Alan appeared on the videophone's screen. "I just called to say hi and see how Gordon is."

"Well, Virgil here thinks he's depressed and…" John looked at Scott, "we'd have to agree with him. But in some ways we're more worried about Dad."

"About Dad?" Alan looked alarmed. "Why? What happened?"

"Nothing… yet," Scott told him. "And we want to keep it that way."

"You mean the way he overreacted the other day? But what can we do?"

"We've got to get him away from the Willis for a few days. Any suggestions?"

"No… But if Gordon's depressed, is getting Dad away going to help?"

"That's what I'm wondering," Virgil stated. "We don't want to exacerbate an already bad situation. We can't help Father if we're only going to make Gordon worse."

"Well," Scott said firmly, "in that case we'll just have to get Gordon to help us."

"How?" Virgil asked, hoping that whatever plan of attack his brothers decided on would be the best for everyone's, especially Gordon's, peace of mind.

Scott sat forward, placed his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers together as he thought. "So we've got to get Father to agree to leave; get Gordon's consent for Father to leave; and, preferably, get the business world to see that Father's still got his hands on the reins…" He looked at Virgil. "How's ACE? Do you think Uncle Hamish would help?"

"I'm only an employee so I haven't discussed the company's financial situation with him, but I'm sure he'd be glad to help out."

"Then we'll call him and ask."

"I've got to go," Alan said. "But let me know how you get on and if I can help."

"Will do, Alan," John responded.

"Catch you guys later." The screen went blank.

Scott stood up. "I'll make the call." Using the unit's videophone he dialled Hamish Mickelson's home number. "Hi, Aunty Edna," he smiled when she came on line. "You're looking as gorgeous as ever. How's one of the best looking women north of the equator?" John looked at Virgil and rolled his eyes.

Edna Mickelson actually giggled. "You're a sweet talker, Scott Tracy. I'm fine. How are you?"

"Okay, but I'm not so sure about the old man. Can I have a word with Uncle Hamish?"

"Oh dear, of course you can." Edna leant away from the videophone's microphone and called: "Hamish… Can you come in here, please?" She looked back at the video screen. "How's Gordon?"

"As well as can be expected."

"Well, give him my love. And don't forget, next time you're out this way you are going to have dinner at our place."

Scott beamed at her. "If it weren't for Gordon I'd be running for the airfield now."

Edna glanced to her right. "Here he is… Give my love to your family."

"Will do…" Scott waited until they'd changed places. "Hello, Uncle Hamish."

Hamish Mickelson smiled at his honorary nephew. "Hello, Scott. What can I do for you?"

"We've got to get Father out of here for a few days for his own good. There's no way that he'll leave Gordon just to have a vacation, but he might be persuaded to leave if one of his companies needed his personal input. Is there any chance that ACE will require the boss's services?"

Hamish thought briefly. "Well… He doesn't 'interfere' with my running of the company as a rule, but we are due to release our quarterly accounts. If I were to say that I have some concerns then do you think that might be enough to tempt him away?"

"It's worth a try," Scott agreed. "But we're not going to tackle Father until we know that Gordon's happy for him to leave. He's our first priority."

"I understand," Hamish nodded. "I'll wait for a call, either from you or Jeff."

"Bye, Uncle Hamish." Scott rubbed his hands together. "I do love the planning process."

"And ordering people about," John said drily. "We'd noticed."

"Do you guarantee that you're not going to push ahead with this plan if Gordon needs Father to stay?" Virgil asked. "Otherwise you can count me out."

"Don't worry, Virg. I think I know exactly how we can get Gordon to agree with no fuss," Scott responded. "But if it'll make you feel happier, you can referee."

"Referee?"

"Make sure there's no foul play. You can also keep an eye on Father and let us know if he wakes up... Come on..." Scott led the way back into Gordon's room.

Jeff was still sound asleep in the chair, Grandma had placed a blanket over her son and departed for places unknown, and Gordon was still relaxing to the sounds of the Pacific Ocean. He opened his eyes when his brothers entered. Virgil took the seat beside his slumbering father and Scott and John pulled up their chairs on either side of the bed, close to Gordon's head.

Scott pressed his finger to his lips, indicated their father, and then held up his cell phone. He started texting. "_Where's Grandma?_" He pressed send and the words appeared on Gordon's texter screen.

Gordon's thumb went into action on his own keypad. "_Start dinner at house._"

Scott's mouth formed an 'O'. "_We need your help, G._"

Gordon's face registered surprise. "_Help? Me????_"

Scott's texted response matched his brother's for punctuation. "_Yes! You!!!!_"

Delighted at the prospect of doing something useful, Gordon grinned his twisted smile. "_How?_"

"_We're worried about Dad._"

"_Dad?_"

"_He's putting everything into looking after you. He needs a short break._"

Gordon gazed at the sleeping man, his expression revealing the deep love he held for his father. Virgil knew it was an affection felt by all of Jeff Tracy's sons, but rarely shown. "_Yes._"

"_But we all know that there's no way he'll leave until you are ready._"

Gordon nodded.

"_Because you're our first priority._"

Gordon appeared surprised. "_I am?_"

"You are," Scott said.

Jeff stirred at the unexpected sound and Virgil held up his hand until he was sure that his father had settled back into sleep. He nodded at his brothers to signal the all clear.

"_What are we going to do?_" Gordon asked.

"_Trick him._"

Gordon's eyes lit up as he looked at his eldest brother. "_Trick him? How?_"

"_Uncle H is going to help. Something's 'wrong' at ACE. Something only Dad can fix._" Gordon nodded his understanding. "_But we know he won't leave till you tell him it's OK._"

Gordon nodded again.

"_You've got to convince him._" This was a text from John. "_Can you do that?_"

"_Yes._"

"_Good. & don't worry. S & I aren't going to leave you._"

Virgil could almost see the hope in Gordon's eyes. "_You won't?_"

"No," Scott whispered. "We promise that we won't leave here again until you are ready to leave here." He grinned. "That's unless you kick us out first."

Gordon looked at Virgil, his expression unreadable.

"That's a promise," John said, taking his younger brother's good hand. "We're here for the long haul."

Gordon looked at him and then transferred his attention to Scott. "Ya pwomiz?"

Scott patted his shoulder. "I promise, Gordon. I'm not going anywhere."

Gordon sniffed and looked between his brothers. A single tear trickled down the side of his face and Scott got a tissue and wiped it away. "Szowy."

"That's okay," Scott responded, not understanding the real reason for the apology. He gave a disarming grin. "Makes a change from the usual Gordon goop." Gordon chuckled.

"_Are you ready, G?_" John asked.

Gordon took a deep breath to steel himself. "_Yes._"

"_Are you absolutely sure? Any doubts we'll wait._"

"'F 'e az ta gao, dan 'e az ta gao," Gordon said loudly.

Jeff stirred.

"Are you sure, Gordon?" Scott said at his normal volume. "Maybe Uncle Hamish will be able to muddle through without Father's help."

Jeff was wakening.

"Nao. 'E az ta gao."

"What's wrong?" Jeff asked, rubbing his eyes.

"I've just been talking to Uncle Hamish," Scott explained. "He's got some concerns with ACE's quarterly accounts. We told him you probably wouldn't want to leave here."

"Vud 'e neez yi," Gordon said. "Yi codda gao."

"I can't leave you, Son," Jeff responded, now fully awake. "No matter how much Hamish needs my help."

"Ya, yi gan."

"Why don't you fly out with Virgil?" John suggested. "You'll leave tonight, have five full working days at ACE and then fly back straight after work on Friday. We're only talking about 117 hours. When you consider the number you've spent here over the last two-and-a-bit months, that's nothing."

Virgil nodded, keen to reinforce that point. "Yes. I won't even bother getting showered and changed on Friday. I can do that here at the Satellite. We'll be back here before dinner time."

"Yi codda gao, Did."

"We're not going to leave Gordon alone," Scott stated. "Right, John?"

John gave an emphatic nod. "Right!"

"And Mr Millington's at his conference this week," Scott said, pushing home his argument. "We're not going to find out anything new while you're gone."

"Well..." Jeff wavered. "Are you sure you don't mind, Gordon?"

"Nao. Gao."

Jeff gave a reluctant nod. "All right then. If I'm really needed... I'll go and call Hamish; see what the problem is." He turned to the son seated beside him. "How late do you want to leave, Virgil?"

"I'm easy. Whatever time you want to go. My plane's fully equipped for night flights."

Jeff stood. "I'll make that call. If you change your mind, Gordon, don't be afraid to tell me."

"'M 'K."

Jeff left the room.

"Yes!" John picked up Gordon's good hand and high-fived it. Then he held it so Scott could do the same.

Gordon grinned like a lunatic.

But Virgil still had his reservations.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"I can fly her, Son."

"I know you can," Virgil responded. "But she's my plane so I'll fly her."

Jeff looked put out, but, making no comment, settled himself into the front passenger seat. Virgil was glad that he hadn't created a fuss. At any other time he wouldn't have had a problem with his father flying his aeroplane (unlike Scott who was practically glued to his controls); but Jeff was clearly still very tired, and Virgil didn't fancy taking any chances of him nodding off mid-flight.

A concern that seemed to be validated when, shortly after take off, Jeff fell asleep.

Virgil dialled a number on his cell phone. "Hi," he said quietly so as to not wake his father. "It's me."

"We were wondering when you were going to ring," Lisa Crump responded. "How did everything go?"

"Not great," Virgil admitted. "I wish I could come around, but I've got my father with me. Can I take a rain check?"

"Of course you can. Will tomorrow night be too soon?"

"Tomorrow night won't be soon enough, Honey, but I'll survive until then." Virgil paused. "I appreciate this..."

"Like we said before, Virgil, after all you've done for us, being your sounding board is the least we can do."

"Thanks. See you tomorrow." Virgil hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket.

"Girlfriend?"

Virgil looked at his father who was regarding his son with a quizzical expression. "Just a friend," he clarified. "I thought you were asleep."

"So I gathered," Jeff said. "Am I cramping your social life?"

"No." Virgil made a course correction. "That was Lisa Crump. She and Butch said that if I needed to talk about anything after this weekend then I could call in and see them when I got home."

"You could always talk to me."

Virgil gave a rueful shake of his head. "No, I couldn't."

"No, of course you couldn't," there was a never before heard bitterness in Jeff's voice. "I'm only your father. You couldn't talk to me."

"Wha..." Shocked and somewhat hurt, Virgil suppressed the urge to blurt out a scathing reply. In silence he pretended to concentrate on flying the aeroplane while trying to work out what he could say that wouldn't sound defensive or antagonistic. Nothing came to mind and he wondered what had possessed Jeff Tracy to respond in such a way.

"I'm sorry, Son. That was uncalled for."

Virgil bit back a "yes." "What did you mean? I've never had problems talking to you."

Jeff sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "It's just that... Sometimes... Sometimes it's seemed to me that you'd prefer to discuss things with Scott."

"You're jealous?"

"I'm your father, Virgil. I would hope that I would be your first line of support."

"Well..." Virgil thought quickly. "There aren't too many times when you wouldn't be. But... on occasion... rarely... you haven't been there." Now Jeff looked hurt and Virgil was quick to reassure him. "Not that you haven't always tried to support us, and you've done a heck of a lot better than many in your position, but you're not Superman. When you were setting up the business you couldn't always be in two places at once. And, sometimes, when it was obvious that you were stressed, it seemed kinder to go to Scott; especially when you had to deal with getting the terrible twosome out of trouble again."

"But they're not here now and I'm not miles away. I'm sitting right beside you, Son. Can't we discuss your problems?"

Regretful, Virgil shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"No. Because you are the problem. And I'm the problem. And Gordon's the problem. And so are Scott, John, Alan and Grandma. Just this once I need to talk to someone outside the family. Someone impartial."

Jeff sat in silence as he mulled over what Virgil had just said. Then he sighed. "What's happening to us, Virgil? I feel so powerless."

"We all do."

"But all this money I've got and what good is it? Gordon's not getting better and I can't help him."

"His accident wasn't your fault. Even if you'd been penniless he'd still have joined WASP and would probably still have been driving that hydrofoil when it crashed. But you wouldn't have been able to get him the care he's been getting at the Willis Institute. Your money's helping Gordon."

Jeff stared out the window at the seemingly never-ending darkness. He grunted a reply.

"Think about the great things you've achieved with your money," Virgil suggested. "It's thanks to you that I've got a job I enjoy."

"You would have got a good job without my help," Jeff told the window.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I might not have been able to afford to go to Denver and get the education I did... Scott would have still joined the Air Force, but he probably wouldn't have been able to attend Yale and Oxford. John wouldn't have gone to Harvard and would only be an amateur astronomer instead of being able to live his dream. And do you think Alan would be principal driver of his own racing team if you hadn't been there to buy it for him? And think about what we'll be able to achieve when International Rescue's operational. Think what good your money will do then."

Jeff finally looked at his son. "Do you still think we should go ahead with International Rescue? Even without Gordon?"

"Not having an aquanaut will limit our scope," Virgil admitted. "But how many underwater rescues are you envisaging us doing? Most are bound to be on land."

"Maybe," Jeff grunted.

Virgil alerted Air Traffic Control to their approach. "You don't have to make a decision about International Rescue now. We've got until Thanksgiving, remember?"

Jeff nodded. "I remember. I just wonder how much we'll have to be thankful for..."

_To be continued..._


	19. A Quiet Discussion

**19: A Quiet Discussion**

Virgil awoke, briefly wondering why his bed wasn't as comfortable as usual. As his mind cleared he remembered that he was sleeping on the camp bed having relinquished his own to his father. It had been decided that Jeff would spend the night at Virgil's and then would spend the rest of the week at his own place.

Scott had radioed Tracy Island and requested Kyrano to fly out to make Jeff's apartment habitable. Kyrano had readily agreed, but had first prepared enough meals to keep Brains fed until the Malaysian manservant was able to return next weekend. It wasn't as though Brains was unable to fend for himself in the kitchen; more that he had a tendency to get caught up in his work and forget the time until his rumbling stomach interrupted his train of thought. Because of this Kyrano had prepared Brains' meals and pre-programmed the cooker to select each dish and heat them at the required times. Once the meal was at the correct temperature an alarm would sound, continuing to make a noise until Brains retrieved the meal from the oven. What he did with it after that was his own business.

Virgil decided that it was time to think about making breakfast. It wasn't until the smell of toast and eggs wafted through the apartment that his father stirred.

Jeff sat up and yawned. "Did I oversleep?"

"Not really," Virgil responded, spooning the eggs onto the toast. "I usually go to work early so I can have a practise on the piano."

"Your bed's comfortable," Jeff admitted as his slipped on his slippers. "Too comfortable."

"So I've been told. Did you want eggs for breakfast?"

"Yes, please." Jeff sniffed the air appreciatively. "That smells nearly as good as your grandmother makes."

'Nearly as good' was a compliment, and Virgil smiled. "Let's hope they taste nearly as good." He placed a plate on the breakfast bar for his father and waited until the older man had taken a seat. "How are you getting to work today? Do you want to take the Red-Arrow? The only people who know I own it also know of our relationship."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll call a taxi," Jeff replied. "I wouldn't want that car of yours to get damaged in ACE's car park. However, I wouldn't mind a drive of her some other time..."

Virgil grinned. "Not a problem. I'll make sure you get a turn before Alan gets his hands on it."

"Thanks..." Jeff picked up his cell phone and dialled a number. "Morning, Mother. How is he?" Virgil ate silently as he listened to the one sided conversation. "That's good... Fine... Don't forget to call if I'm needed back there. I'll keep my cell with me at all times... No, I haven't got there yet; your grandson's just feeding me breakfast... Not bad, but not nearly as good as yours. " He winked at Virgil who smiled in reply. "Okay, don't forget to call if necessary. I'm not planning on attending any meetings... Bye, Mother." He put down the phone. "Gordon's fine," he said, and resumed his breakfast.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"How are you, Virgil?" Lisa asked.

Virgil made a so-so gesture. "Trying to keep a brave face on things," he told the Crumps. "I daren't let Father think otherwise. I'm sorry I put the pair of you out last night."

"Don't worry about it," she replied. "Are you still able to come over tonight?"

"Yes. If you'll have me."

"Of course. Come and have dinner with us."

"Thanks." Then Virgil chuckled. "I thought Father was asleep when I rang, but he heard me talking to you. He thought I was talking to my girlfriend."

"Where's Mista Tracy?" Butch asked. "I thought 'e was with you."

"He's making his own way here," Virgil responded. "We're still pretending we're not related."

"Butch! Lisa!" Bruce came running over to his friends. "You'll never guess who's just arrived! It's Mister Tra..." He spied Virgil. "Oh, I guess you already know... How's Gordon, Virgil?"

Virgil was trying not to think exactly how Gordon was. "About the same physically. Mentally he's... struggling."

"This is going to sound crass," Bruce began, "but in that case what is," he had a furtive look around, "your father doing here?"

"We, that is my brothers and I, all agreed that if he stayed at the Willis too much longer, he was going to have a breakdown, so we've tricked him into thinking he's needed urgently here... With Uncle Hamish's help, of course."

"And is he?" Bruce asked. "Needed here, I mean."

"Not as far as I'm aware," Virgil replied. "And I hope he doesn't find out that he's been tricked. He'll blow sky high if he does..."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Morning tea time.

Virgil decided that he needed to make contact with the Willis Institute, just to reassure himself that Gordon was coping with his father's absence. As he always did when making a private phone call, he slipped outside and walked around the back of the office block past an open window...

"What do you mean, you made a mistake?!"

Virgil froze. That was his father's voice and Jeff Tracy did not sound pleased.

"I must have transposed two numbers." Hamish Mickelson was on the defensive. "I'm sorry, Jeff. It was my mistake. I guess we aren't in as much strife as I thought."

"You thought! You dragged me away from my son because you _thought_ ACE was in _strife_! Gordon's gravely ill and you drag me away because _you_ transposed two numbers!?"

"Jeff..."

"Hamish! If you weren't such an old friend I would be seriously reconsidering your place at ACE."

Virgil had heard enough. He ran back to the door, strode quickly through the office block and, completely ignoring Hamish Mickelson's P.A.'s horrified "Virgil!" marched into the General Manager's office.

Surprised by the sudden intrusion, the two men turned to look at him. Jeff Tracy's face was red in anger. So was Hamish's, but for a completely different reason.

The Personal Assistant followed Virgil into the office. "I'm sorry, Mr Tracy... Mr Mickelson. He just walked straight through," she gabbled; her face white. "I couldn't stop him. He didn't listen to me. I..."

Hamish managed a reassuring smile. "It's all right, Olivia. I'll take care of this. You were about to go to morning tea, were you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Perhaps you'll be good enough to ask the canteen to put some of their special coffee on to brew? Mr Tracy and I will be down shortly to enjoy it."

Her face still white, the P.A. nodded, glanced at Virgil, and fled.

"What do you think you are doing, Virgil?" Jeff growled. "This is a private conversation!"

Virgil shut the window. "It is now. I heard you yelling at Uncle Hamish from outside."

"No employee has the right to barge into the General Manager's office unannounced."

"Which is why I'm not here as an employee of ACE," Virgil slipped his arms out of the sleeves of his overalls and tied them around his waist so the logo was hidden. "I'm here as your son and I'm here to stop you making a big mistake."

"Mistake!? Another mistake!" Jeff stormed. "What is wrong with this place?"

"Nothing's wrong with ACE," Virgil asserted.

"And how do you know that?! Either as an employee or my son?"

"Because your sons asked Uncle Hamish to make up that story about ACE having problems."

Jeff's jaw dropped. "You did what?"

"We were worried about you. It was obvious that you needed to get out of the Willis for a while."

"I don't believe this..." Jeff picked up some papers. "Hamish, call the airport and tell them I'm flying back straight away."

"No!" Virgil's shout stopped his honorary uncle's move towards the videophone.

"Yes, Hamish! And that's an order!" Jeff leant on the desk, glaring at his son. "That you boys could even _consider_ tricking me into leaving the Willis is unthinkable... It's inexcusable! Weren't you even _thinking_ about Gordon!?"

"Gordon helped us!"

Jeff, throwing papers into a box, froze. "Gordon did what?"

"He knew all about our plans and he helped us. He could see that you needed a break away from him as clearly as we could. Believe me, Dad, there's no way that I would have let them send you away from him if he wasn't one hundred percent behind what we were doing."

Jeff Tracy stared at his son. "You all tricked me?" Then he sank onto a seat. "_Gordon_ tricked me??"

"You should have seen his face light up when he realised that he could help," Virgil told him. "The idea of tricking someone, even you, made him feel better... more alive. By falling into his trap you've helped Gordon."

Jeff gave a rueful shake of his head. Then he looked up at his friend who had yet to touch the videophone. "I'll bet you're glad you've got a daughter instead of sons, Hamish."

"Actually, Jeff, I was just thinking how lucky you were to have five boys who cared so much about you."

"You'll upset Gordon if you fly back now," Virgil said. "You've only got five more days. You don't even have to stay here if you don't want. Take a few days to recharge your batteries."

"No... Perhaps it would be better for Gordon if he continued to think that his little ruse worked." Jeff sighed. "I'm sorry, Hamish."

"Don't worry about it. I know these aren't the easiest times for you and your family. If I can help in any way..." Hamish chuckled, "even as a whipping boy, then I'm here for you."

"Thank you..."

A bell sounded.

Virgil groaned. "That is one thing I am not going to miss about this place. I'm telling you that if you decided to run International Rescue by the clock, then I'm quitting right now! I'll become a full time artist with no schedule."

Jeff chuckled. "And you'd be bored within a week."

"Quite probably." Virgil smiled at his father. "I've got to get back to work. Are you going to be okay?"

Jeff nodded. "Now that I know the full story and don't have to worry about Gordon or ACE." He stood and squeezed his son's shoulder. "Thank you, Virgil... But don't you and your brothers think that just because you conned me once, you can do it again." He slipped his hand around to the back of Virgil's neck and gave him a gentle shake. "Understand?!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Now get back to work."

Virgil grinned. "Yes, Sir." As he left the room he looked at Hamish Mickelson and received a wink in return.

Greg Harrison was waiting in the outer office. "Is everything okay, Virgil?"

"Everything's fine."

"Good." Greg smiled. "Olivia pulled me out of the canteen. She was white as a ghost and convinced that I was about to find myself short one employee."

Virgil chuckled. "Nope. You've got to put up with me for a little while longer yet."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was later that same morning when the next scene in the day's dramas started to unfold. Virgil was in discussion with Greg over the dimensions required for their next job, when Hamish Mickelson hurried over to them, closely followed by Max Watts.

"Good," Mickelson hissed, looking about furtively, "I'm glad I've got the three of you together."

Virgil was surprised. This was not the way that ACE's General Manager usually behaved, like a naughty schoolboy about to be caught out; but, deciding that it wasn't his place to speak, he said nothing.

Greg Harrison did it for him. "What's wrong, Hamish?"

"I wanted to give you advance warning. Jeff's reviewing the company's files for the last few months. I didn't mention anything to him about what happened to... change the supervisory structure here on the floor, but I had to make a full report. I've filed it in such as way so as to not attract attention, but Jeff's going through everyth..."

"Hamish!!"

Virgil gulped. Jeff Tracy sounded even angrier than he had during morning tea. All employees within hearing distance downed tools and were trying to see what was wrong.

Hamish Mickelson composed himself and turned. "What can I do for you, Jeff?"

"You can explain _THIS_!" Jeff was brandishing a manila folder.

"Er... Which report is that, Jeff?" Hamish Mickelson held out his hand.

"The report dated June 26th, in which you _four_," Jeff glared at Virgil who felt himself shrink back under his father's withering gaze, "were involved in a dispute that resulted in changes here at ACE! Changes of which I was unaware until today!"

Hamish Mickelson gave no hint of the consternation he was displaying only moments earlier. "Shall we retire to your office to discuss the matter?"

Jeff pointed at the senior staff members that he had lined up in his sights. "I will to talk to you three now." His finger shifted. "As for you Virgil Tr..." he caught himself, becoming even angrier at his near slip of the tongue. "I will talk to you _later_!!"

Virgil watched as the four men left the factory floor. If this diversion was supposed to be calming Jeff Tracy down, it seemed to be having the opposite effect.

"Did I..." The unexpected voice coupled with frazzled nerves made Virgil jump. "Sorry," Bruce apologised. "Did I hear a Kansas accent just then?"

"Yes," Virgil nodded. "You did."

"Oh... What's the accepted response to such an event?"

Virgil gave a tight smile. "Hide behind your grandmother and hope she'll be on your side and not his."

Bruce gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "It's been nice knowing you."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

By the time Jeff Tracy got around to tearing strips off his son for not telling him exactly what had happened, the older man had lost much of his steam. Nevertheless, it was a much relieved Virgil that knocked on the Crumps' front door that evening.

It was pulled open with such force that Virgil expected to find that Butch had pulled it off its hinges. Instead he found Lisa smiling at him. "Come in," she beamed. "You've timed it to perfection. Butch is just dishing up. He's cooked steak." She pulled her guest into the open plan dining/kitchen area. "He's here, Honey. Are you nearly ready?"

Butch, resplendent in a red and blue striped apron, turned from the stove. "Ready," he said, hastily pulling off the apron and shoving it into the nearest hiding place, which happened to be the dishwasher. "'Ow is ya, Virgil?"

"Surprised," Virgil admitted. "I never realised you were a cook."

"Someone has to be," Lisa said. "Apart from the basics, I'm absolutely useless. Aren't I, Butch?"

"Ya make up for it in other ways," her husband responded with a soppy grin.

"We thought we'd eat first and talk afterwards," Lisa explained. "Or would you be more comfortable talking while we eat?"

"Uh..." Virgil hadn't given it much consideration. "Eat first I guess."

"A good idea if you've got a lot to say," Lisa admitted. "Here," she escorted him to the table. "You can sit there."

It was a convivial meal and once again Virgil found himself surprised by how eloquent Butch could be when he warmed to a subject.

When they'd finished Virgil went to help with clearing the table, was scolded by Lisa, and escorted to the lounge by Butch. "Have a seat, Pal," Butch indicated a worn, but comfortable looking, easy chair.

"Thanks." Virgil accepted the offer and sat down.

Butch subsided onto a couch and Virgil almost expected to see it collapse in a cloud of dust. Lisa took the seat beside her husband; folding herself gracefully onto the chair. Not for the first time, Virgil was struck by what an odd couple they were.

Lisa opened the conversation. "How's Gordon?"

Virgil sighed, closed his eyes, and thought. Was he doing the right thing discussing this with the Crumps? While they weren't strangers, wasn't this the family's, and only the family's, business?

He came to a decision. "Depressed doesn't even begin to cover it. He's decided that he's not going to get any better." Virgil made a hopeless gesture. "He's giving up."

"And what does the doctor say?" Lisa asked.

"I don't know. He's at a conference and won't be back until Monday."

"'Ow," Butch queried, "is 'e givin' up?"

Virgil hesitated. There was no sanitised way of saying this. "He wants to die." He paused again. "He asked me to help him." Lisa gasped and put a hand to her mouth and Butch made an odd sound. Virgil grimaced as the feelings of horror resurfaced. "I told him I couldn't."

"What does ya famly say?" Butch asked.

"I haven't told them. You've seen how tense Father is, if he knew Gordon wanted to commit suicide it'd send him over the edge. And the rest of the family are just as bad. I did tell John and Scott that he wished he was dead... But I didn't say that he was making plans to do something about it."

"Is Gordon getting any counselling?" Lisa asked, and when Virgil nodded added. "Have you told his therapist?"

"I've tried," Virgil admitted. "But we've been playing phone tag all day. I'd ring and he'd be in with a client or else he'd ring and I'd be working. I tried sending an email tonight, but it bounced back. I'll have to ring the Institute tomorrow and confirm the address."

"What are you going to do?" Lisa asked.

Virgil shrugged. "Once I've spoken to his counsellor, I don't know. Obviously I can't do what Gordon wants. But what's really tough is that I don't feel I can stay in the same room with him. He keeps on looking at me with this pleading expression to try to get me to change my mind."

"You might find it might be easier to face him once you've spoken to someone who can help him," Lisa hypothesised. "Once you know he's getting the right sort of help."

"I hope so."

"Are you sure you can't discuss this with anyone in your family?" Lisa continued. "Your father's obviously struggling to deal with Gordon's injuries..."

"Yeah," Butch interrupted. "Afta 'is shoutin' match today, Freddy, the new guy, ask'd me 'o th' ol' grouch was. When I said it was Mr Tracy, 'e said 'e didn' believe me. 'E'd always bin told that Mr T. was a good guy. I 'ad ta tell 'im about Gordon an' tell 'im that Mr Tracy _is_ a good guy."

Virgil looked at him in gratitude. "Thank you, Butch."

"How is the rest of your family coping?" Lisa asked.

Virgil gave a bitter laugh. "They're not, though you'll never get them to admit it. I don't think they realise they're changing, probably because they're living with it 24/7. It's creeping up on them, but it hits me like a brick. Every weekend there's a new, unwelcome, revelation... all except for Gordon's paralysis, which hasn't changed since he woke up from the coma."

"How are they changing?" Lisa asked.

"Well... We've always teased Scott about being such a mother hen towards us four, but now, where Gordon's concerned, he's more like a she-wolf protecting her cubs. You daren't say anything negative, or that could be construed as negative about Gordon. If you do you risk Scott going for your throat... John can't sit still; he's always fidgeting. He's used to being able to look out at the stars and now he's locked away inside most of the time. He does have a telescope at the house, but there's so much light pollution about that it's nearly impossible to see anything. They both went to our island, this weekend, to do some things for Gordon, and it's amazing what a difference for the better the break made. It makes me think that there's still hope for us all... Alan seems to be okay, but then our schedules don't always match. But it's obviously affecting him. He told me that that's why he didn't overtake Gomez during the race... Grandma always presents the same face to us, but I've got the feeling that deep down underneath she's about ready to crack..." He sighed. "Listen to me."

"That's why we invited you, remember," Lisa reminded him.

"I know," Virgil gave a rueful smile. "It doesn't seem fair though. You don't deserve to be burdened with my problems."

"Why not?" Lisa asked. "We've burdened you often enough..." She thought briefly. "That's your problem, Virgil Tracy. You're too unselfish. What you need to do is take some time out for you and you alone. Maybe you shouldn't go and see Gordon one weekend."

Virgil was horrified. "I couldn't do that! It's not like Gordon can take a weekend's holiday from his problems."

"True," Lisa agreed. "But you've got to remember, Virgil, is that while Gordon is living this 24 hours a day, seven days a week, he doesn't have to also deal with holding down a full time job, pretending to be someone he's not, flying miles every weekend, landing a crashing plane to save his own life and the lives of his brother and friends, and being asked to help a sick brother commit suicide. You _need_ a break. You need time away from work and from the Willis Institute and, dare I say it, time away from your family."

"But I can't not go to the Institute for one weekend," Virgil reiterated. "It wouldn't be fair on the others. All they can do is watch Gordon deteriorate."

"Then take a day off work," she suggested.

"I can't have a day's vacation," Virgil protested. "I'm not owed any."

Lisa treated him to a wry smile. "Don't tell me you're worried about the money."

"No, but it wouldn't be fair. We're busy at work."

"Talk to Greg. He'll understand. I'm sure he'd prefer to have you away for one day and coming back fully refreshed, rather than stressing out and making errors on the job. If he doesn't agree then I'm sure Mr Mickelson will support you."

"Yeah," Butch agreed. "But don' make it Monday or Friday."

His wife looked at him. "Why not?"

"'Cause if Virgil took Monday off 'e'd think 'e'd 'ave ta fly home on Monday 'stead of Sunday. An' if 'e took Friday off 'e'd think 'e should leave for the hospital Friday 'stead of Sat'day."

Lisa gave a sage nod. "You're right, Honey." She fixed Virgil with a firm gaze. "Tomorrow you ask Greg Harrison if you can have Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday off next week."

"But..."

"No buts. You're not going to do Gordon or anyone in your family any favours if you wind up needing therapy yourself... You want to be able to support your family, right?" Virgil nodded. "Then take one day off to recharge your batteries. Do something that _you_ want to do. Forget your family. Forget ACE. Forget your friends. Forget Virgil Tancy and only think about Virgil Tracy. That way, if you get bad news about Gordon, you'll be strong enough to stand alongside your family and support everyone... Deal...?"

Virgil thought for a moment. He could see merits in Lisa's proposition and a day away from the stresses of his world sounded idyllic. He nodded. "Deal!"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Late Wednesday evening and Virgil and Scott were engaging in their nightly recap of the day's events. "Remember how Alan said he had come up with a way of getting Gordon some independent mobility?" Scott asked.

"Yes."

"He brought it in today. It's a kind of wheelchair built for two. Gordon's seat is on the right with the controls at his dominant hand, and his 'co-pilot' sits in the left hand seat..."

"Sit?" Virgil queried. "But Gordon can't support himself in a sitting position."

"Alan had that sussed. Race drivers have a special kind of seat that you sit in and it remembers the shape of your butt. He had one made that was big enough to remember Gordon's entire body. That way he only requires one seatbelt rather than several." Scott nodded his approval. "It's a much more dignified arrangement."

"Clever," Virgil commented. "So how does a 'wheelchair built for two' give Gordon independence?"

"Obviously it's not total independence," Scott admitted, "but it does give him some control. Because he can only use his thumb, his options are limited, but Alan's mechanics solved that by making the control lever dual-purpose. Gordon decides whether he wants to control speed or direction, and his passenger controls the other option. Guess which option he favours?"

"Speed?" Virgil guessed.

"Naturally," Scott laughed. "I've test flown unproven fighter jets and they never scared me like some of Gordon's excursions did."

"You want to try doing a lap of a race track with Alan driving," Virgil suggested. "Is Gordon enjoying his new toy?"

"Loving it. Especially since we didn't tell him what we had planned. We pretended that we had a magical chariot for him to test drive and were going to smuggle him out without telling any of the hospital staff. John and I had already checked that it was safe to move him and been shown how to handle the paraphernalia he's attached to. So the duty nurse 'finished' her rounds and we went into action. I carried Gordon..." Scott lost his smile. "I hadn't realised how much weight he'd lost until I went to pick him up. I overcompensated and nearly threw him across the room." He pulled himself together. "Anyway… Alan helped us get Gordon moulded into his seat and then while we got all the drips and everything sorted, he made the bed up to look like someone was still lying in it." Scott paused. "He made such a good job of it that I think the kid's done it before."

Virgil chuckled. "I can believe that."

"Then Alan checked that the corridor was clear. 'Luckily' all the nurses were talking in the nurse's station at the far end and couldn't see us make our 'escape'. So we got away scot free..."

"Present company excepted."

Scott looked surprised by the joke. "Huh? Ah... Yeah. Well, we only went for one lap around the main building, Gordon was tired after that, but he loved it... Especially the fact that we'd tricked the nurses."

"You mean especially the fact that he'd tricked you," Virgil amended and laughed at his brother's confused expression. "Come on, Scott... You and John do something sneaky against the establishment? And not only sneaky but possibly dangerous to Gordon? Alan anyone could believe, but you two? No way."

"Yeah," Scott agreed, deflated by the realisation. "You're probably right."

"And he probably got more of a kick out of thinking that he was tricking you three, than he would have if you had genuinely been sneaking him out of the hospital."

Scott brightened. "Yes." He grinned. "I wish you'd been here, Virg. It was great to see Gordon happy again."

And Virgil wished he could have seen it too.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Greg Harrison had been totally agreeable to Virgil's request to have the following Tuesday off and it was a Virgil who felt strong enough to face the weekend that let his father take the controls of his aeroplane for the flight back on Friday afternoon.

After the explosions of last Monday, Jeff Tracy had calmed down during the week, and Virgil had even taken advantage of an offer to enjoy Kyrano's cooking and had shared a relaxing evening with his father Tuesday night. Wednesday was dinner at the Mickelsons' and Thursday was the chance to repay them with some more of Kyrano's delicious food. By Friday Virgil was beginning to feel that he'd gained several kilos and that he should run, not fly, to the Willis Institute.

Little was said during the flight except casual conversation, but Virgil noticed that the closer they drew to their destination the whiter Jeff's knuckles were getting. When they were two thirds of the way through the flight he asked if he should take over.

"No." Jeff shook his head. "It keeps me from thinking too much."

The rest of the flight was uneventful and Jeff made his trademark smooth landing on the airfield before taxiing into the hangar. There, father and son hefted their bags onto their shoulders, and exited the aeroplane, leaving it in the capable hands of the airfield's mechanics.

They took the long route to the entrance of the institute, walking slowly instead of taking the travelator.

Jeff stopped before entering the building and gazed up at the imposing façade. "I hate this place," he announced.

"Huh?" Virgil, surprised by the unexpected comment, reached out to his father. But he was too late. Without another word Jeff strode inside. By the time they'd reached Gordon's room, the Tracy patriarch was all smiles, eager to learn of Gordon's exploits, and keen to relate the details of his week away.

And Virgil found himself wishing that Tuesday would hurry up and come.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Despite Scott's positive reports from earlier in the week, that weekend Virgil didn't want to risk finding himself alone with Gordon again. Even being in the room at the same time as the others had him stressing that, somehow, Gordon would try to pressure him; which his younger brother managed to do with depressing regularity. Every topic of conversation seemed to somehow, swing around to the subject of death and dying. Virgil couldn't understand how his family were missing the rather obvious hints.

It got so bad that he used every excuse he could think of to leave the room. So, when Scott went for his daily run, Virgil went with him. When Jeff went for his daily walk, Virgil went with him. When John went to get some supplies, Virgil went with him. When Grandma went to cook the meals, Virgil went to help her.

When Gordon went for a drive in his 'chariot', Virgil stayed behind.

He'd survived most of the weekend and it was now late Sunday afternoon and Virgil found himself calculating how long it would be before he could leave. Tuesday wasn't going to come quick enough for him.

The family were sitting around Gordon's bed, having a casual conversation about the pets they'd had over the years.

"Which dog was it that used to climb up the junk pile, onto the roof of the shed, and then jump into your arms?" Alan asked his father.

"Zippy," Jeff replied. "He was crazy, that dog."

"I remember Zippy," Scott said. "He used to catch sight of his own reflection in the mirror and work himself up into a lather trying to chase the interloper out of the house."

"Wasn't he the one that used to grab onto that rope we had suspended from the tree and swing himself about?" John remembered.

"That's him," Jeff said fondly.

"'Ow" dud e di?" Gordon asked.

Jeff shook his head. "Stupid mutt had absolutely no road sense. He walked straight out in front of a car. I took him to the vet, but he was paralysed and there was nothing they could do. I had to have him put down... The place never felt the same after he'd gone."

"Just as well they don't put humans down when they're paralysed," Alan commented. "Right, Gordon?"

"Wood mmayk liv ezr."

Believing that Gordon's, "would make life easier", was a joke, everyone laughed.

Everyone except Virgil who found a lopsided pair of brown eyes staring at him in mute desperation. Unable to take it any more, Virgil jumped to his feet and headed for the door.

Jeff turned to watch his progress. "Where are you going?"

"Where am I going…? Ah… For a walk… Back soon…" Virgil escaped out the door.

He'd walked out of the Willis Institute's main building before he heard the hurrying footsteps behind him. He didn't take any notice until someone grabbed his arm and spun him around.

It was Scott. "What do you think you are playing at?"

Virgil had a pretty good idea what his brother was talking about, but didn't want to discuss the matter. "I'm going for a walk, that's all."

"A walk? You went for a walk this morning."

"So? I'm going for another. I didn't realise that it was against the law. Then I thought I might get my things ready for the flight home."

"Virgil! You've hardly seen Gordon all weekend and I have it on good authority that you didn't spend much time with him last weekend either." Scott's voice was growing louder. "What's wrong with you?"

Virgil shrugged. "Nothing." He tried to walk away but Scott stepped in front of him.

"You're not going anywhere until you explain yourself."

"There's nothing to explain, Scott."

Scott folded his arms and glared at him. "I think there is."

Virgil was starting to get annoyed and frustrated. "Well, I don't. Now, if you'll excuse me…" His arm was grabbed again. "Get your hands off me!"

"No! Not until I hear a reasonable explanation for why you're deserting our brother."

Virgil shook himself free of Scott's grasp. "I'm not deserting him! I wouldn't!

"Wouldn't you?!"

"No! Do you realise that I gave serious consideration to having too much to drink last week, just so I would have an excuse not to come here! But I didn't, be..."

Scott sneered. "But you considered it."

"I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't do that to Gordon."

"Couldn't do that to him? Do you even care about him?"

Virgil saw red. "Don't you dare accuse me of not caring!" he stormed. "There isn't a minute that I'm not thinking about him. At work! At home! I can't stop thinking about him! I can't stop caring!"

"Don't lie." Scott stepped up so he was in Virgil's face. "You've been ignoring him!"

Un-intimidated, Virgil squared up to his brother. "I have not ignored him!"

"Then get back in there!"

"No!"

"You hypocrite! You lecture John and me about leaving Gordon alone and then do exactly the same thing yourself!"

"I haven't flown half way around the world without telling him why!"

"You don't have to be half way around the world to distance yourself from someone. You can be in the same room but still be miles away!"

"Just like you can be in the same room but be blind to what's really happening!"

"What's that supposed to mean!?!"

"Boys!" It was Jeff Tracy. "This is a hospital," he hissed. "Be quiet."

Still glaring at Virgil, Scott spoke to his father. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to stop you two from creating a scene." Jeff indicated the window to Gordon's room. "We could hear ever word."

Horrified, Virgil stared at his father. "Could Gordon hear us too?"

"I should think the entire institute could hear you," Jeff said. "Now what's going on?"

"Ask him," Scott indicated Virgil. "He won't talk to me."

"That's because there's nothing to talk about," Virgil rejoined. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Scott grabbed his arm a third time, piling bruises on top of bruises. "You're not going anywhere, Virgil Tracy!"

"You are not my boss and I can do what I like! Now, let – me – go!" Virgil broke free.

"You're his boss," Scott appealed to Jeff. "As his father and at ACE, so you tell him! Tell him to stop thinking about himself and to start thinking about Gordon!"

Jeff opened his mouth to say something but Virgil jumped in first. "Think about Gordon? All I do is think about Gordon! All I do is think about him lying there helpless. All I do is think about how no matter how much he wants me to, I can't help him!" He took a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions under control.

"Virgil," Jeff spoke quietly, trying to soothe a stressful situation. "Please come inside again."

"No," Virgil replied. "I can't."

"You can't?" Jeff frowned. "Why? I don't understand,"

"Gordon understands. That's all that matters."

"He does?"

"Yes!"

"Let him go, Father," Scott snarled. "We're finally seeing his true colours." He leant closer to Virgil and spoke, his voice low and contemptuous. "And you're going to be wearing the right colour sash."

Virgil finally snapped. "I've had it! I'm going home. You can tell everyone goodbye from me!" He started striding towards the airfield. "Tell Gordon I'm sorry!"

His brother attempted to chase after him but was held back by their father. "Leave him, Scott."

But Scott wasn't willing to give up that easily. "What are you running away from, Virgil?" he bellowed.

Virgil spun about so he was facing his father and brother. "What am I running away from, Scott? I'm running away from my worst nightmare. _That's_ what I'm running away from."

And then he was running. Running from the stresses and fears and pain that the Willis Institute represented. Running for his aeroplane.

He'd reached it when his cell phone beeped and flashed orange. It was a series of texts from Gordon and they came through in quick succession.

"_Don't go."_

"_Please stay."_

"_I need you here."_

"_I miss you when you're not here."_

"_Plz come back. No pressure."_

"_Please, Virgil. Don't go."_

Virgil climbed into his pilot's seat and sent a reply. _"I can't stay. Not now."_

"_You fought with Scott. You NEVER fight with Scott."_

"_We have on occasion."_

"_Not like this. Sounded like you hate each other."_

"_We don't. We're okay."_

"_Is that why you're going? Because he doesn't understand?"_

"_That's part of the reason."_

"_He doesn't know." _Another succession of texts._ "They don't know. They don't understand." … "This is my fault."_

"_I want to help you, Gordon, but you know I can't do what you want."_

"_I know."_

"_I'd do anything but that."_

"_I know."… "I'll tell them what I told you. Then they'll understand."_

"_Dont" _Forgoing allpunctuation; terrified that Gordon would compound the problem by revealing his death wish to the Tracys; Virgil sent his message. Then, hoping that his brother had heeded his order, he sent another text, aware that the rest of his family was probably following their conversation. _"Please, G. Don't tell them. Think of what it will mean to you & them."_

"_Okay…" _Virgil breathed a sigh of relief. _"Come back? Please?"… "Pretend the conversation never happened." … "Forget I asked 4 help." … "Please come back, Virgil."_

"_If we forget you asked 4 my help, will you forget the idea?"_

There was a pause and Virgil wondered if Gordon was considering his answer, or if his quick-fire texts had tired him out.

Then he received his reply. _"Okay." … "Will you come back now?"_

Virgil thought. _"In half-an-hour. We all need to cool down."_

The phone flashed orange. _"Okay."_

Then it flashed gold. _"Grandma's looking for you."_

Not even stopping to thank his father for the warning, Virgil vacated his aeroplane. He knew his grandmother wanted to help, but how could she help if he couldn't give her the full story? And to refuse to talk to her would only hurt her feelings and exacerbate the whole situation.

He spent the next half hour sitting under a tree, trying to banish his anxieties and hoping that Gordon was true to his word and would forget his wish to end it all.

Half an hour later Virgil headed back to Gordon's room, wondering what his reception would be. 'Cool' was the word that came to mind when he walked through the door. Jeff looked concerned, Grandma was frowning, John couldn't look at him, Alan seemed to be biting back a million questions, and Scott looked like he was ready to jump him should Virgil give him the slightest provocation.

Only Gordon appeared happy to see him; his twisted face smiling with relief. "Yi szid er," he demanded, indicating the seat by the head of his bed.

The seat that was presently occupied by Scott. "I'm sitting here!"

"Whand Brr-chill der."

Scott was in a stubborn frame of mind. "He can sit over there!"

"Yi cun szid obr der."

"But I've already got a seat! Here!"

"It's okay, Scott," Virgil said. "I'll sit here."

"Nao!" Gordon exclaimed. He turned to Scott. "Ged oud."

It was clear Scott couldn't believe his ears. "What?"

"Ged oud," Gordon repeated. "Im giging yi oud."

"You're what?"

"Kicking you out, Scott," Alan elucidated. "He wants you to leave the room."

"I..." Scott appeared dumbfounded by the order. "Ah... Okay... I'll... I'll go home then."

"Gid."

Scott circled the bed en route to the door, but Virgil stopped him. "I'm sorry, Scott."

Scott glared at him. "You've been given that seat. Don't let it get cold." He stormed out of the room.

Virgil gave a mental sigh and wished it was Tuesday. One problem was being replaced by another. He took Scott's seat and had his hand grabbed.

"Dan qu, Brr-chill."

"I didn't do anything, Gordon."

"Nao, yi didn'. Dan qu. Dan qu 'n' szorwi."

Virgil patted his hand. "That's okay. You're going to be okay now, aren't you?"

"Ya."

"Promise?"

"I pwomiz."

"Good." And suddenly Virgil felt that it was going to be all right.

_To be continued..._


	20. A Quiet Respite

**20: A Quiet Respite**

"Good morning, Virgil," Mr Millington, the neurologist in charge of Gordon's care, smiled at the young man on the videophone's screen. "What can I do for you?"

"I... ah…" Virgil hesitated. "Have you had a chance to talk to Gordon's counsellor yet?"

Mr Millington's smile slipped slightly. "No. Not yet. I've only been back at work twenty minutes. Why?"

Virgil hesitated again. Over the past few hours since Gordon had assured him that he would drop all thoughts of committing suicide, doubts had been surfacing again. "I thought you should be aware of something…"

"Yes?"

"The Sunday after you left for your conference, Gordon and I were talking. Father had gone for a walk, Grandma was taking the Baileys home and Scott and John had gone to make some recordings for Gordon. So it was just the two of us…" Virgil paused a third time. He hated saying this. He felt like he was betraying a confidence, while at the same time aware that it wasn't something to be ignored. "Gordon told me he wanted to commit suicide."

There was no change in Mr Millington's demeanour. "And you tried to dissuade him?"

"Yes. He asked me for my help and I told him I couldn't."

"Have you spoken of this to anyone else?"

"Only Gordon's counsellor." Virgil said, deciding that it wasn't necessary to mention the Crumps.

"No-one in your family?"

"No. They're stressed enough as it is, I didn't want to burden them any more."

"Good," Mr Millington acknowledged. He picked up a thick folder and started going through it.

"I thought you should know," Virgil said, feeling a bit lame about his admission.

"It is mentioned in here," Mr Millington indicated the folder, "but I'm glad you told me." He read briefly and then looked back at his caller. "And how are you, Virgil? Now that you know of Gordon's wishes."

Virgil shrugged. "Okay, I guess. I mean I was stunned at first. Heck, I was more than stunned. It was a real bombshell. Gordon's never given up before! If things ever got tough he just tried harder… But after that it seemed to me that he'd keep on finding some way of reminding me of what he wanted, even when the others were there. I felt I couldn't stay in the room with him… And I'll admit that it's been playing on my mind. Yesterday Gordon told me that he was giving up on… the idea, but now I'm not sure if he meant it or if he was just trying to humour me to make me feel better."

"I'll talk to the relevant people and get their opinion." Mr Millington made a note in the folder. "Is that why you and Scott fought?"

Virgil stared at the medical man. "Huh? How did you know about that?"

"It's in here," Mr Millington informed him, indicating the folder again.

"Oh…" Virgil gave a shameful nod. "Yes. I didn't spend much time with Gordon this weekend, and when he dropped another hint yesterday I couldn't stand it any longer so I decided to go for a walk. Scott asked me why I was ignoring Gordon and got upset when I refused to tell him. We ended up having something of a heated discussion."

"It sounds like more than a 'heated discussion'." Mr Millington read from the folder. "_Scott Tracy accused his brother of 'ignoring Gordon' and 'not caring', as well as demanding to know what he was 'running away from'. Virgil Tracy took exception to the first two comments and replied to the latter query that he was 'running away from his worst nightmare.'_" He looked up again. "Is that correct?"

Virgil's jaw had dropped at the revelation. "Does this place record everything?!"

"Everything that concerns our patients, yes."

"But how does a private argument between me and Scott concern Gordon enough to warrant it going on record…? Apart from the fact that he probably overheard it," Virgil added, remembering his father's arrival on the scene.

"The Willis Institute's concern is always first and foremost the wellbeing of our patients and that includes their being in a calm and supportive environment. We note the patient's relationship with their family, and other visitors, and the family's relationship with the patient and each other, especially when a family is obviously as close as yours. We also take note of any changes in those relationships. If the strain becomes too much, say for the patient's father, then we do what we can to relieve that strain, because if something happens to the father, then that will impact on the patient. Do you understand?"

Virgil nodded. "Yes. I guess I didn't realise how thorough you people are."

"We don't have the buildings bugged electronically in any way and we don't record private information," Mr Millington assured him, "We only note enough to give an indication of people's emotional states… How are things between you and Scott?"

"We haven't spoken since," Virgil admitted. "I think his feelings are hurt because when I went back to the room, Gordon demanded that I sit next to the bed and then kicked Scott out when he refused to move."

"If at all possible, I would recommend that you and Scott try to settle your differences before you next visit Gordon. He's sure to pick up if there is any dissent between the pair of you."

"I'll do my best…" Virgil thought. "Can I ask you a question, Mr Millington?"

"If you wish."

"Did you use the 'patient's father' as an example for a reason?"

Mr Millington nodded. "Yes. I have my concerns about your father's wellbeing and the impact it's having on Gordon."

"I'm sure Gordon's worried about him," Virgil stated. "I know we are. That's why we made sure Father had a week's break away from the Willis last week."

Mr Millington's eyebrows shot skyward. "You encouraged your father to leave knowing your brother's mental state?"

"I wasn't happy about it at first and I made Scott and John promise that they wouldn't go ahead with the plan if Gordon wasn't one hundred percent behind it, but he could see that Father needed to get away, so he co-operated willingly. He enjoyed the idea that he was able to take part in the hoax. "

One eyebrow had descended, but the other remained elevated in a quizzical look. "A hoax? What kind of hoax."

"The General Manger of the company I work for's an old family friend. We got him to say that there was something wrong with the books and he needed Father's help to straighten it out. Gordon was glad to help. He's a prankster from way back and the idea that he could still trick someone thrilled him… Even if Father wasn't impressed when he found out he'd been conned. He went ballistic."

"Is that the reaction you would have expected from your father?"

"Not really. He would have been annoyed, especially at being dragged away from Gordon, but I wouldn't have expected him to react quite as fiercely as he did. And then, later on, when he discovered something else that had happened at the company months ago, something that involved me, he tore strips off the three most senior staff members, on the factory floor, in front of the rest of his employees. That's something he'd never normally do. Even as kids, when one of us would do something naughty he'd never yell at us or punish us in front of our brothers…" Virgil gave a wry grin. "That was what the study was for."

"Do you think his time away from here helped him?"

Virgil gave a helpless shrug. "I honestly don't know. I thought he'd calmed down a lot by the time we flew back here on Friday, but then, just before we entered the Institute, he said how he hated the place. I don't think he was saying it to me; more like it was for his own benefit. Then he marched inside and it was like it was a totally different person walking into Gordon's room."

"I see." Mr Millington made a notation. "Thank you for your honesty, Virgil, and thank you for caring enough about Gordon to let me know about his mental state." He gave the young man an earnest stare. "How are you? Would you like me to arrange for you to talk with someone? You can visit with a member of staff here at the Willis Institute or I can arrange for you to see someone closer to home."

"No, thanks," Virgil replied. "I'll be okay now that I know that someone's keeping an eye on Gordon."

"If it's any help," Mr Millington said, "I discussed Gordon's case, not mentioning any names of course, with my colleagues at last week's conference. This has helped me decide on the next stages of Gordon's treatment."

"Really?"

"Yes. I do not want to get anyone's hopes up, so I trust this will remain between you and me, Virgil, but I have hopes that by the end of this week I will have a clearer idea of Gordon's long term prognosis… When are you planning to return to the Willis?"

"Friday afternoon. But I can make it earlier if you want."

"No, I should have the results by Friday. Will Alan be there?"

Virgil thought briefly. "Yes, I think he said he had the weekend free."

"Good." Mr Millington smiled. "I'll want the entire family present when I report on my findings."

Virgil finished the phone call feeling better about some things but still unsure about others.

And feeling that he couldn't wait for tomorrow.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil's next videophone call of the day was received after he'd finished work. He smiled at his youngest brother. "How are you, Kiddo?"

"Me?" Alan managed to avoid grimacing at the use of his nickname. "I'm okay. But how are you? The only topic of conversation we've had today was about how strangely you've been acting. Deserting Gordon, arguing with Scott, running away from Grandma… That's not like you."

"No..." Virgil admitted. "But we're all acting a bit out of character. It's because of all the stresses and strains we've been under."

"Can I help? I thought that maybe, since you and I are more or less in the same boat, not being at the Willis full time, I might have a better understanding of what's wrong than the others."

Alan was not always the most thoughtful of the Tracy boys, and Virgil appreciated this unexpected display of concern. "Thanks, but the only thing that will set things right," he said, treading cautiously as he remembered Mr Millington's earlier phone conversation, "will be some certainty about Gordon's future."

"Do you think he has a future outside that room?"

"I don't know."

"I can't imagine spending the rest of my life stuck in bed," Alan admitted. "I think I'd be inclined to do something drastic."

Virgil quickly changed the subject. "Is that the only reason why you've called?"

"Huh? Oh… No. I've bought myself a new plane!"

"What? Another?"

"I got rid of the Culiseta. She had too many faults."

"Such as a tendency to cripple you?"

Alan ignored the remark. "And I thought Scott might need to cool down a bit after his 'discussion' with you, so I took him shopping on-line. He helped me choose a TA-5800 Cynomya. We test flew her today and she handles like a dream… once I managed to shoehorn Scott out of the cockpit." He chuckled and Virgil smiled at the mental image conjured up. "She's just as fast as the Culiseta, but looks better… And she's a little bit bigger too." He gave a cheeky grin. "You'll appreciate that.

"All reviews say the Cynomya a great plane," Virgil approved. "You've made a good choice there."

"Thanks… I was wondering; do you want me to pick you up on Friday in the Cynomya and we could fly out to the Institute together?"

"Sounds good," Virgil agreed. "I haven't had the chance to see Tracy Aviation's latest creation in its entirety yet, so you can show me what she can do and I can show you the bits I helped to make."

Alan beamed, glad to be finally taken seriously over his choice of plane. "Okay, then. Pick you up at the usual time?"

"I'll be waiting."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil awoke at his normal hour. His first inclination was to get up and get ready for work, but then he remembered that this was the day he'd been hanging out for.

Today was Tuesday.

It seemed strange to be so excited about a day when he had nothing planned: but he was. This was his day. His chance to get everything back into perspective. His time to relax and unwind.

He rejected the idea of a long lie-in in bed. Instead he got up, didn't bother with having a shave, and enjoyed a leisurely wash and breakfast. He then decided that he would not check his emails, he'd direct his videophone straight to his voicemail, and he would leave his cell phone turned off. If his family needed to contact him urgently, they could use his wristwatch telecom.

Everything to do with International Rescue could stay in the safe: unseen and untouched.

After doing a few minor chores about the apartment, Virgil settled down to a pleasant morning tinkering with the Red-Arrow. By the time he enjoyed a late lunch, it was purring sweeter than a kitten getting its belly rubbed_._ After lunch he washed again, shaved, changed into clean clothes, and took the sportster for a drive.

It was heaven, as if all his cares were blown away in his slipstream. He had no plans of where he was going and what he was going to do when he got there. He just drove. Not at speed; but so that he could feel the bite of the autumnal wind on his face, making him feel alive.

It was a much more relaxed Virgil Tracy who pulled up outside the Crumps house just before 5.00pm. He hopped out of the car and jogged up to the door, rapping a tune on it. "Is the doctor in?" he beamed when Butch greeted him. "I've come to report that the prescription worked a treat."

Confused, Butch frowned for a moment. Then he smiled. "That's great. Com'n."

"Actually I was wondering if you and Lisa wanted to come out. I've been working on the Red-Arrow and I'd like to know what you think. Do you want to go for a drive?"

Butch's face lit up. "Yeah! Hang on an' I'll get Lisa." He left Virgil on the doorstep and ambled away, calling to his wife. "Lisa… Liesl…! Virgil's here. Do you wanna go for a ride in th' Red-Arrow?"

Lisa appeared, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and towelling her hair after a shower. "What was that, Darling?"

"Virgil's here. 'E says 'e feels great an' 'e wants t' know if we wanna go for a ride in the Red-Arrow."

Lisa looked around the lounge. "Where is he?"

Virgil waved through the front door. "Here."

"Oh, Butch, where are your manners…? Virgil, come inside. You don't have to stay out there. You're practically part of the family. You can just walk in."

Virgil grinned and stepped over the threshold. "I don't know that that's a good idea. You know what happened last time I interrupted your shower... And Grandma's not here to back me up this time... Do you want to go for a drive?"

"Love to," she responded. "Just let me get my coat."

Together they walked out to the sparkling red car. "Here..." Virgil tossed his keys to Butch. "You can drive." He climbed into the back seat.

"Man..." Butch slid behind the driver's wheel and ran his hands over the steering wheel. "This feels like comin' home." He stared the ignition and smiled appreciatively when he heard the engine purr. "Sweet..." He set the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. "Where're we goin'?

"Anywhere," Virgil suggested. "Just drive."

Butch drove.

About an hour later Lisa suggested that they find a place to eat. "Only let us pay for you this time, Virgil." She held up her hand when he started to protest. "Please, we'd like to. Only don't expect anywhere quite as expensive as La Gemme Cachée."

Virgil laughed.

When he eventually got home that evening he was still in a buoyant frame of mind. Without really considering the consequences, he switched his videophone back from the answer-phone.

Almost immediately it rang.

Virgil reached out to answer the call, but hesitated when he saw the caller's ID.

Scott.

Uncertain at what his reception was going to be, Virgil answered the phone. "Hello?"

Scott's response was oddly formal. "Hello, Virgil. You must have been busy at work. I've been trying to get you all day."

"Uh..." Virgil wasn't prepared to lie. Nor did he want to reveal the truth. "Yeah... I've been busy today."

There was silence.

"How's Gordon?"

"He's okay," Scott replied. "Mr Millington's been putting him through a lot of tests."

"Tests?"

"Yes. Brain scans and things like that."

"Ah..."

More silence.

"Did he say why?"

"Did who say why?"

"Did Mr Millington say why he's putting Gordon through a lot of tests?"

"Oh...! No..."

"Ah..."

This time the silence lasted a full minute.

"Scott...?"

"Yes?"

"Why have you rung?"

"I... Because..." Scott lapsed into frustrated thought. He took a deep breath. "Because I think that I should be apologising to you, but I don't know why."

"You mean last Sunday?"

"Yeah, I mean last Sunday... Look, I know you, Virgil. And you were behaving totally out of character, running away from Gordon like that. But I know that you wouldn't do it without a good reason." He took another breath. "If I were to apologise for saying that you didn't care about Gordon, would that start us on the road to mending a few bridges?"

"That would get us to the end of the road, Scott. I'm sorry that I can't explain my actions, but I had my reasons for behaving the way I did, and Gordon knows what they are..."

"He said something to you, didn't he? Asked you to do something for him?"

"Yes."

"Something that you can't tell the rest of us?"

Virgil nodded. "I wish I could tell you. It would all make perfect sense if I did."

"Can't you at least tell me?"

"No." Virgil shook his head. "It wouldn't do you or Gordon any good. We're all already stressed enough as it is. I can't compound things."

"Wouldn't you find it easier to talk about it?"

"Don't worry about me. I've got my outlets."

"Yes," Scott said, not really understanding. "You have. I wish I had something like painting or playing the piano... Are you coming back to the Willis this weekend?"

Virgil remembered his promise to Mr Millington. "I'll be back Friday afternoon. Alan's picking me up in the Cynomya. He tells me you helped him choose it."

Scott gave a wry grin. "He didn't want to make another mistake like the Culiseta. But, to be fair, that particular plane was a lemon. He showed me the mechanic's report and it has so many faults in it that he was lucky that it didn't fall apart mid-flight. I checked over his new plane and she's in good shape. He'll get plenty of miles out of her."

"I hear she's a dream to fly."

"Oh, yeah," Scott looked love struck. "She's a real honey. If I ever decide to get rid of my old girl, I'm getting a TA-5800 Cynomya."

Virgil chuckled. "Two-timer."

Scott grinned. "I'd better get back over the road. Can I tell everyone that you're okay?"

"Yep. And you can tell them that you and I are okay, Scott. I'll see you, and Gordon, on Friday."

"Copy that."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Friday rolled around quickly and Virgil found himself in the passenger seat of Alan's TA-5800 Cynomya. Even from this vantage point he could tell that the aeroplane was a masterpiece of aeronautical engineering and a joy to operate. Alan hadn't stopped raving about his new acquisition since they'd left the airport.

They touched down on the Willis Institute's airfield and taxied into the hangar that had become the home away from home for the Tracys' aeroplanes.

"Hello," Virgil commented, looking through the cockpit window. "We've got company."

"Who's there?" Alan asked. "Scott... John... Dad?"

"And Grandma."

The two brothers looked at each other. "Something's up," Alan said. "C'mon."

They climbed out of the aeroplane and turned control of the Cynomya over to the airfield's ground crew before heading over to the waiting quartet.

"What's up?" Alan greeted his family, trying to sound cheerful. "Don't tell me Gordon's kicked you all out?"

"No," John responded. "Mr Millington has."

"Mr Millington?" Wide-eyed, Alan stared at him. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, as far we know." Jeff Tracy had his arm about his mother, but Virgil wasn't sure who was reassuring who. "He wanted to talk to Gordon alone and he's asked us to all wait in his office once you two had arrived."

His family was looking worried and Virgil sought to reassure them. "He told me that he was hoping to have a better idea of Gordon's future by today."

Everyone stared at him. "Who said this?" Grandma asked.

"Mr Millington."

"When were you talking to him?" Scott demanded.

"Uh..." Virgil couldn't tell them he'd rung the doctor in case they wanted to know why, so he omitted a few facts. "He heard about our argument and wanted to find out what it was all about."

"What did that have to do with him?" Scott demanded. "How'd he find out about it anyway?"

"Someone put it into a report. He told me that they report on all sorts of things."

"Such as?" Jeff asked sharply.

"They note the relationships friends and family of the patient have with each other and if there are any changes in those relationships. They want to keep life as normal as possible for the patient, and that includes making sure family interactions don't change. He was worried that if Scott and I weren't getting along then Gordon would notice and it would upset him."

"Too late," Scott said. "He heard us shouting."

"I know..." Virgil admitted. "Mr Millington also told me that counselling is available to anyone who needs it."

Grandma nodded. "We know."

No one said if they'd availed themselves of this service.

Not another word was said as the family traversed the travelator into the main hospital and walked along its corridors to the neurologist's office. Seven seats were arranged in a semicircle and they each took one, facing the empty chair behind the desk.

Still no one spoke.

They'd been sitting there for about half-an-hour, multitudes of dire scenarios chasing through their heads, before the door finally opened and Mr Millington entered. He greeted them all with a smile, indicated that the men should sit down, and then claimed his own seat himself. "I know you are all wondering why I've chosen to speak to you in here and what I've had to say to Gordon," he began, "so I won't keep you waiting. I have decided on the next phase of Gordon's treatment... One that I am hopeful will bring positive results."

"Positive?" Jeff sat forward. "How positive?"

"There is a possibility of one hundred percent recovery. But...!" he added before anyone had the chance to get their hopes up too high, "there is also the very real possibility that things could go wrong... Disastrously wrong. That is why I wanted to talk to Gordon alone. I wanted to make sure that he understood the procedure, knew the risks, and that he had the opportunity to ask me questions. You are a close family and I didn't want Gordon to be influenced by your opinions, no matter how well meaning they may be and how much you believe you are acting in his best interests."

"What is this procedure?" Scott asked. "How dangerous is it?"

"It entails an operation... Do you know what nanotechnology is?"

"The manipulation of matter at a molecular and atomic level," John replied.

"Correct. I discussed Gordon's case at the conference I attended the other week and consensus was that we should use nanotechnology in his treatment." Mr Millington leant forward on his desk. "What I propose is that we drill a series of holes into Gordon's skull. Through these holes, or stoma, we will introduce microscopic robots, known as nanobots. Each of these nanobots will be programmed to search out one particular sector of Gordon's brain. Once it is in position it will operate on the specific neuron, capillary, axon, or whatever molecular structure it is programmed to repair. When the nanobots' sole task is complete, then it will retrace its steps back through the stoma, job complete."

"How many nanobots?" Grandma asked.

"Thousands. Obviously they will have to be introduced into Gordon's brain in a specific order so that later robots don't undo the work done by the earlier ones."

"How will they navigate?" John asked.

"Gordon's head will be held in a frame of transceivers emitting specific signals to and from the robots. Each nanobot will navigate by its relationship to the various signals given out by these transceivers."

Jeff nodded his understanding. "Triangulation."

"Yes... My principal job will be leading up to the operation, when I must ensure that we have an accurate map of Gordon's brain so that we can programme the transceivers and nanobots correctly... There will be no margin for error."

Scott repeated his earlier question. "How dangerous is this?"

"I am not going to sugar coat this, Scott. There are many opportunities for error. An incorrectly programmed nanobot losing its way and operating on the wrong segment of the brain, a malfunction in one of the transceivers, nanobots losing power and being unable to be retrieved... Naturally we will do all we can to minimise the risk of errors... but there is a risk."

"What're the numbers?" Alan asked. "90 percent chance of a full recovery? 80 percent? Fifty?"

"Even that is inexact," Mr Millington said. "There is only a chance of full recovery. After the operation Gordon may experience improvement in some fields of mobility, but not in others. He may find that he has full facial control, but only limited movement in his limbs. Or he might be able to walk, talk, but only have limited mobility in his right arm. Or..." he paused, "he might lose some of the faculties he has now. He might lose his sight, his hearing, cognitive abilities..." another pause. "There is a possibility that this procedure could kill him."

Everyone took a moment to digest this piece of information.

When he decided that they'd had long enough to think, the neurologist continued. "If we go ahead and Gordon survives this procedure, he will be in a drug-induced grade three coma for at least four days afterwards, to give his brain an opportunity to recover and reduce the chances of swelling and bleeding. We will have no indication of the success or otherwise until after we allow him to wake up again. Once he does awake, assuming that there were no complications, we shouldn't have to wait for long to discover how successful the operation has been. Both Catherine and Rose agree that, assuming that the operation is one hundred percent successful then his recovery should be rapid, though he won't be able to immediately run a marathon or recite entire chapters from his WASP manual."

"Mr Millington," Virgil began. "Initially you were talking as if the operation is going ahead, now you're saying _if_ it goes ahead. Hasn't Gordon made a decision yet?"

The neurologist looked at him. "He has, Virgil."

"And that is?" Jeff asked, his white knuckled hands gripping the armrests of his chair.

Mr Millington's gaze was redirected to the Tracy patriarch. "He has given his consent for the operation to proceed."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was early Saturday morning and Virgil was the only visitor in Gordon's room. Everyone else was off exercising, shopping, or just giving themselves a chance to think.

"How are you?" Virgil asked.

"K."

"Glad that it looks like we're finally going to be getting somewhere?"

"Ya."

"I'll be glad when Wednesday's over."

"Nod mi."

Virgil frowned. "No?"

"Nod da comber. Hayded bein' in da comber." Gordon grabbed Virgil's hand. "Don'd leab me 'lon."

"No, Gordon. We won't leave you alone while you're in the coma. Not if we can help it."

"Ceyp talgin'."

"We'll keep talking to you."

"Ned zoun'. Ned t' no 'm 'live."

"You...?" Virgil tried to understand the sentence. "You need to be able to hear sounds to know you're alive?"

"Ya." Gordon looked at his brother with his lopsided face, then his thumb moved and he typed into the texter. _"You'll be interested to know that I can sign my signature."_ Before Virgil was able to comment he started typing again. _"Your drawing exercises worked."_

"At least I was of some help," Virgil responded, not sure if this was a good thing or not.

Gordon was typing again. _"Signed 'do not resuscitate' order."_

"Oh..." Virgil tried desperately to think of something intelligent to say. "I guess that's fair."

"_I asked Mr M that if it's obvious I'm not going to be 100 pc okay that he slip me something to end it all."_

"What did he say to that?"

"_Against the Hippocratic oath."_

Virgil felt a measure of guilty relief. "Gordon... I can understand why you'd sign a DNR, but you do _want_ to recover, don't you? You are trying to be positive about all this?"

"_I want to get well. But it's got to be 100 pc."_

"But what if it's 95 percent?"

"_Got to be normal."_

"But what's normal? Remember Allie Keall at school? She was in a wheelchair, but she attempted things most able-bodied kids would never attempt. The only thing wrong with her was her legs. There was nothing wrong with her attitude to life."

"_Don't want to spend life as a cripple."_

"But what if the only thing wrong with you is that you don't have full mobility in one of your hands? I could live with that. Couldn't you?"

"_All right for you. You're ambidextrous."_

Virgil stared at Gordon, unable to work out if this was a sarcastic insult or a simple fact. "I never asked to be ambidextrous." He sighed. "Forget that as an example... what if you're paralysed only in one leg? You'll still be able to use your hands and get around. You'd still be able to swim. Look at those Paralympians. They don't let their 'disabilities' hold them back from competing in the pool."

"_Olympic champion to lame duck."_

"I'd guarantee that none of them regard themselves as lame ducks."

"_Let it go, V. This is me, not you. You've got no idea what this is like. I'm fed up and I want it to finish... one way or another."_ The door opened and Gordon wiped his words from the texter screen.

Jeff Tracy entered the room, closely followed by Mr Millington. It was the latter who spoke first. "Everything's almost ready, Gordon. We'll do two more scans; one on Monday and one on Tuesday to confirm that there are no changes from earlier tests and then, all being well with you and the nanobots' programming, we'll operate on Wednesday. Is that all right?"

Gordon looked at the doctor. Then he looked at his father, at Virgil, and then back at Mr Millington again. "Ya."

But Virgil noticed that his brother's thumb had started twitching...

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Late Sunday evening Virgil threw his bag on his bed and proceeded to make himself a cup of coffee. All through his flight home he'd been aware of a certain disquiet. This operation that Gordon was going to undertake sounded dangerous. Nanobots crawling through your brain? Virgil gave an involuntary shudder. Questions that he'd thought of on the trip home looped, unanswered, over and over in his mind. He could ask Mr Millington, but Virgil didn't want to disturb the neurologist, not when Gordon's life was in his hands. But who could he ask? Who did he trust? Who could explain the procedure in a way that he could understand...?

Virgil flicked on the videophone and speed-dialled a number. He had to wait ten rings before he was greeted by a short-sighted, slightly nervous smile. "V-V-Virgil?"

"Brains, I was wondering if you..."

There was a dry chuckle. "I was p-preparing a written explanation of the procedure when you rang. I'll, er, email it through to you all when I've finished. Then, if you s-still have questions, you can call me and ask me."

Virgil stared at the little scientist. "How did you know that's what I needed?"

"I have already, er, spoken to your father, your grandmother, and S-Scott. I am confident that I will be hearing..." Brains attention was diverted by a sound. "Ah... There's John now." He turned his attention back to the videophone. "Gordon is in good hands, Virgil. The W-Willis Institute is the finest of its type in the world. Mr Millington is one of the, er, leaders in his field. If anyone can make this operation a success, it's him... And remember that if you have any other q-questions, I'm only a phone call away."

Virgil smiled. "Thanks, Brains. I'm glad you're a part of the team."

_To be continued..._


	21. A Quiet Operation

_For those who are interested, when I was researching possible cures for Gordon on the Internet, I found that nanotechnology has been mooted as a potential future treatment for neurological injuries. I have no idea if it would work the way that I've depicted, but if it works for Gordon, who cares?_

**21: A Quiet Operation**

"Hiya, Virgil," Bruce Sanders greeted his friend. "How was your weekend?"

"Okay…" Virgil responded. "I guess."

"You guess?" Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Don't you know?"

"Did you boys have a good weekend?" Lisa asked as she and her husband joined the two men.

"Virgil doesn't know," Bruce replied. "He's still trying to work it out."

"Work what out?" Butch asked.

"I don't know."

Concerned, Lisa put a hand on their subject of their discussion's arm. "Virgil?"

"I was at the Willis all weekend," Virgil admitted. "Mr Millington's decided that Gordon's best chance of a full recovery is to have an operation…"

"Well…? That's good… isn't it?" Bruce queried.

Virgil shrugged. "It might mean a full recovery. It might mean a partial recovery. It might make things worse… It might kill him."

Bruce's response to this news was a quiet, "Oh."

"When're they doin' it? Butch asked.

"Wednesday."

"Wed's'day?"

Virgil nodded. "I'll fly out there Tuesday evening."

"What does Gordon think about the operation?" Lisa asked.

"He's given the go-ahead for it to happen, but he's also signed a D.N.R…"

Butch scratched his head. "What's tha'?"

"Do not resuscitate. It means that if something goes wrong and Gordon's heart stops during the operation, he doesn't want them to try to start it again," Virgil explained. "He says he either wants to be fully fit or dead... No half measures. I don't know what he'll do if the operation isn't a complete success."

Lisa gave his arm a reassuring rub. "Are you okay?"

Virgil gave another shrug. "I've got to be. I've got to keep positive. I've got to make myself believe that he's going to get through this okay." He sighed. "It's strange… Sometimes, over the years, I've wished that he was part of someone else's family; not mine. There've been times when I haven't liked him, many times when he's embarrassed me, and a lot of the time he's simply been the stereotypical annoying, irritating, aggravating younger brother. But… despite that… I still want him to live, no matter how disabled he is…" He shoved his hands into his pockets and hung his head. "Is that selfish of me?"

"Not as selfish as Gordon asking you to help him commit suicide," Lisa stated.

"Gordon did wha-ow!" In pain, Bruce rubbed at the Butch boot sized bruise on his ankle.

"He's ya brother, Virgil,' the big man said. "Of course ya want him t' live. That don' make you a bad person."

The morning siren sounded. "Don't worry about me." Virgil pulled himself together. "This is my problem, not yours. But I don't think I'm going to be a lot of fun to be around this week, and besides, I'd rather be alone… I know you understand..." He headed inside, leaving his friends still in their huddle.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Greg Harrison had assigned Virgil to work with Freddy, ACE's latest employee. The newcomer was an animated young man, fresh out of engineering school with an engaging personality and a motor mouth. "Fantastic!" he enthused. "A short week! It's great working here, but nothing's as good as having time off on full pay. Right, Virgil?"

Virgil hadn't even considered the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. "Right," he agreed, not really listening as he loaded a die into the computerised 100-ton press.

"I'm a local so I'll be hanging around town catching the local sales, although I think there's never anything worthwhile getting. I usually end up as the family donkey; fetching and carrying whatever they buy. What are you going to do? Off home to be with the family?"

"Yeah…" Virgil adjusted the die.

"Are you a local or are they out of town?"

"Out of town."

"When will you be leaving?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow? Tuesday! Boy, you're going to have a really long weekend. Guess it pays to have spent some time with the company. How long have you worked here?"

"Under a year."

"Under a year? And you're already having time off? Guess that means you won't be getting paid for Wednesday. Still I suppose that's a small price to pay to get away. Is your family keen on the sales too?"

"No."

"Lucky. I remember one year my sister bought herself a new bed, under half price it was. It was king-size too, so I don't know why she bought it. Her room's only big enough for a single. I think she'd got such a buzz at being the first one into the store, ran in she did, that she got carried away. Anyway, guess who she conned into bringing this humungous bed home for her? I had to strap it to the roof of my car. I only drive a compact and I had half a mile of mattress hanging over each side. I dunno how I managed to get home, or how the cop managed to see my number plate, cos I got a ticket in the mail. I made my sister pay it and it was nearly as much as she'd saved on the bed in the first place, so she wasted her money. It didn't fit into her room anyway. Then there was the time that my…"

"Freddy!" Virgil exploded. "Will you shut up!? I'm trying to concentrate!"

"Sorry…"

"We're supposed to be working; not discussing your family's shopping habits!"

"I know…"

"Just be grateful that your family is happy and healthy…"

"Uh…" Freddy looked about for assistance.

"…And that your sister can walk and talk and go shopping!"

"Um…"

"Think how lucky you are that she's not confined to a hospital bed hoping to die!"

"Virgil…" It was Bruce to the rescue. "Calm down."

Virgil turned on his friend. "What!?"

"He'll be okay."

"You don't know that!"

"No, I don't. Just like you don't know that he won't be."

"He wishes he was dead, Bruce."

"You told me that. But he's made it this far. You said yourself he's not a quitter."

"That was before…"

"Virgil…" Greg Harrison had heard the raised voice, and Bruce, relieved at their supervisor's appearance, took a step back. "Now take a deep breath and calm down… Freddy…" He turned to the bewildered young man who was standing there slack jawed at the unexpected exchange, "if you're going to work here you're going to have to learn that there is a time for chat and a time to work. And now is the time to work."

"Uh... Yes, Sir."

"Bruce…"

"Yes, Greg?"

"Finish setting up the press. Virgil, you're coming with me."

Virgil nodded, ashamed of his outburst. "Sorry, Freddy," he mumbled. "I…"

Greg put his arm about Virgil's shoulders. "Come on, Son. You and I need to talk."

Reluctantly, and expecting to be led into the production office, Virgil allowed himself to be guided through the factory. He was surprised when Greg turned not left, but right; towards the main administration block.

"Is the boss in?" Greg asked Olivia, Hamish Mickelson's P.A.

She smiled up at him. "Yes, he is. Do you want a word?"

"If we could."

She pushed a button on the inter-office intercom. "Mr Mickelson. Greg Harrison and Virgil Tancy would like a word with you."

His reply sounded slightly metallic. "Send them in, Olivia."

Virgil followed Greg into the General Manager's office and stood just inside the door. He rubbed his palms, suddenly sweaty, on his overalls and swallowed.

"What can I do for you both?" Hamish asked, smiling.

"Virgil's come to ask if he can take the rest of the week off, Hamish," Greg responded.

Virgil stared at his supervisor. Asking for time off, apart from on Wednesday, hadn't even occurred to him. He knew that with the upcoming holiday, schedules were tight and he wasn't expecting special treatment, even if he was the boss's son. "But, Greg, I…"

But Hamish was nodding his agreement. "That's understandable. I'm surprised that we're seeing you at all this week, Virgil. I thought you would have wanted to spend time with Gordon before his operation."

"I do… But… But…" Virgil stammered. "I can't take time off."

The General Manager stared at him. "Why not?"

"I'm not due any holidays. The factory's busy. I had a day off last week. We agreed that you wouldn't treat me any differently from anyone else just because I'm Jeff Tracy's son."

"Which is precisely why we are letting you have time off," Hamish told him. "If we were to insist that you stay here we would be treating you differently from your father's other employees."

"But I don't want to cause any trouble."

"You will be causing me a good many headaches, but I can live with that." Greg chuckled.

"You're more like your father than I think you realise, Virgil," Hamish explained. "He's excessively loyal too. And he always gives over one hundred percent; often at his own expense..."

"Hamish is right," Greg agreed. "Go. We'll survive without you."

Virgil hesitated; part of him reluctant to accept their offer, part of him relieved. "Are you sure?"

"We're sure," Hamish confirmed. "Even if you hadn't been his son, Jeff wouldn't have hesitated in letting you have compassionate leave; and neither will I. Go home, Virgil. Go home and pack your bags and then fly out to the Willis Institute. Your family needs you and you need them." He stood. "And don't forget to tell them that we're thinking about you all and hoping for the best." He held out his hand. "Tell that younger brother of yours that he's causing even more mischief than usual and that he's got to stop it and get better."

Virgil shook the proffered hand. "Thank you, Uncle Hamish. Thank you, Greg. I won't forget this."

He left the office and retreated to the locker room, where he removed his overalls and dumped them in the laundry. It seemed silly to put them into the wash when he'd barely worn them, but he knew that he'd only upset the system if he didn't. He retrieved his bag from his locker, shut and locked the locker door, hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, and left the room.

As he passed through the factory he spied Bruce and gave him a farewell wave. His friend surreptitiously looked around, couldn't see any supervisors, deserted his machine, and ducked over to say goodbye. "Did Greg kick you out?"

"Greg and Uncle Hamish. They said I should never have come here this week."

"They said right." when Virgil heard Lisa Crump's voice, he turned and received a big hug. "Tell Gordon we're thinking about him."

"Yeah," Butch agreed. "'N text us when he's outta surgery."

"And when he wakes up," Bruce added. "Let us know how everything's turned out."

"John's setting up a texting slash emailing list," Virgil admitted, "so that we can send out a bulk message. I'll make sure your numbers are on it."

"Make sure mine's on it too," Greg Harrison stepped up to the group. He looked at Virgil's colleagues. "I wasn't aware that the tea break bell had gone."

A bell rang.

"It has now, Greg," Bruce grinned. He nudged Virgil. "You deserve a medal. You're the only person I know who's actually managed to shut Freddy up. When he found his voice again he said to me that he'd always thought you were a nice, quiet guy and that people had always said that Mr Tracy was a nice person too. But that you'd both exploded for no apparent reason. Then he asked me if you were related. I told him that if you go far enough back in the family tree everyone's related. He seemed happy with that explanation."

"Thanks..." Virgil spied someone he wanted to talk to. "Hold this for me, would you...?" He pushed his bag into Bruce's hands. "Freddy! Wait!"

Freddy stopped and looked at him warily. "What?"

"I wanted to apologise for yelling at you," Virgil admitted. "I can't use this as an excuse, but..." he waited until some of his colleagues had meandered past. "This isn't general knowledge here, but my brother was in an accident three months ago."

Freddy's face fell. "Oh... I'm sorry."

"He's been in hospital ever since. He's having an operation on Wednesday that... that may well either kill or cure. If it doesn't it's possible that he'll be even more disabled than he already is. I'm worried about him and I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

Freddy groaned. "And there I was waffling on about my sister. I'm sorry, Virgil, if I'd known I wouldn't have mentioned it."

"That's not your fault. Only a handful of people here do know. I've been given compassionate leave to spend the rest of the week with him," Virgil gave a wry grin. "So you won't have to worry about me blowing my top again."

"You're leaving now?

Virgil nodded. "I'll go home, pack, and fly out."

"Will you be back here on Monday?"

"I'd planned on being at work, now I'm not sure," Virgil responded. "You'd better go. I'm stopping you from getting your coffee."

"I hope the operation goes well," Freddy said.

"Thanks. I'll be letting Bruce know whatever happens and I'll tell him to pass on the news to you."

"Thanks." Freddy repeated and he smiled. "Catch you later."

Virgil retrieved his bag. "I'll see you all next week." He found himself wrapped up in another of Lisa's hugs. "Steady on! Your husband will think there's something going on between us!" Butch laughed. "Bruce... Chances are I won't be here on Monday, will you tell Freddy the news... whatever it is?"

"Sure," Bruce agreed. "No worries. Now, get moving and give Gordon our best."

"Right." With one final wave Virgil left Aeronautical Component Engineering's building and got into his car...

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

No one looked surprised when he walked into Gordon's room two days early.

"Good to see you, Virgil," his father greeted him.

Gordon's bed was missing and Virgil indicated the gap in the furnishings. "Where is he?"

"Having the last of today's scans," Grandma informed him. "Then he's going to have one more tomorrow..."

The door opened and Gordon was wheeled into the room. "'Iya, Brchil."

"Hiya, Gordon. Is everything on track for Wednesday?"

"Ya."

"We'll take the final scan tomorrow," Mr Millington explained. "So we've got a comparison for afterwards. That way we'll know what's normal and what's not."

Gordon's texting thumb went into action. "_How will you know the difference?_"

Virgil laughed, glad that his brother still had his sense of humour. "I've got something for you."

"Fo mi? Whad?"

Virgil was patting his pockets. "Now... Where did I put it...? He reached into his bag and pulled out a leather pouch. "That's part of it..." He continued searching, pulling various bits and pieces out and placing them on the bed. "Don't worry. I know put it somewhere safe..."

Scott was watching the growing collection that was accumulating on the bed. "So safe that you can't find whatever it is?"

"Yes..." A pocket knife was added to the top of the pile.

"And for his next trick," Alan teased, "the 'Great Virgilo' will pull a rabbit out of a hat."

"Not a rabbit; more like a rabbit's foot."

"Huh?"

"Ah! Of course!" Virgil discovered an inside pocket. "This is a new jacket and I keep forgetting that's there..." He pulled out a plastic bag, which he opened and tipped its contents onto his palm. "I found this before I left home." He held up the small, green piece of plastic so that Gordon could see it.

"Mi luggi gharm? Ya fund mi luggi gharm?"

"Yes." Virgil pressed the lucky charm into his brother's hand and closed his fingers around it. "It was hiding under my bedside table."

"It must have been lying there for the last three months?" John commented. "When was the last time you cleaned your place?"

"About three months ago."

Grandma tutted. "Virgil!" she scolded. "I thought I brought you up better than that?"

"I'm never home, so what's the point?" Virgil responded. "On the list of things I've got to worry about, a bit of vacuuming's way down the list."

Gordon, his face alive with happiness, was endeavouring to bend his arm enough so he could see his treasure and his father helped support his hand. "I won't have to do this for much longer, Son."

"Nao."

"Can I have it back for a moment?" Virgil took Gordon's lucky charm and slipped it into the pouch. "I bought this in gift shop downstairs." He pulled the mouth of the bag tight with its leather thong and tied it to the end of the bed, draping the pouch over Gordon's left foot. "How's that?"

"Gwead!" Gordon beamed.

"What is the point of that?" Jeff asked.

"Sportman's superstition. Right, Gordon?"

"Rigd."

Alan sat back. "Ah. I get it."

"I don't," Grandma said. "What was that bit of plastic?"

"The lucky charm that helped Gordon win his swimming races," John explained. "Now it's going to help him get better. Right, Gordon?"

"Rigd." Gordon grabbed the texter's keypad. "_Thanks, V. Now I know everything's going to be OK._"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Wednesday.

Gordon was waiting to go into surgery, and the rest of his family had gathered around to be with him. Virgil reflected that his little brother appeared to be as calm as if he were waiting for a hair cut... A strange metaphor as Gordon had already had his head shaved in preparation for the procedure.

"You look like a bowling ball," Alan snickered.

"I wouldn't go sticking your fingers into the holes_,_" Scott warned.

"We let some people know that you were having the operation today," Alan continued. "You've got cards from WASP, U.S.A. Swimming, our old school..." He smiled when he saw a signature. "Tin-Tin, Kyrano, Brains, Lady Penelope..."

Gordon looked at each card as they were held in front of him. "Wisz I 'ad m' degsda."

"You're right, Gordon," John admitted. "We should have brought the texter down here with us."

"Gid envenshun." Gordon managed a thumbs-up. "Yi'll mayg lotta mony odda id. Ged az widg az Dad."

John laughed. "I don't think the profits from that one invention will have me swimming in money, certainly not as much as he's got."

"Alin... Win yar larz raz?"

Alan moved closer to the gurney. "My last race? It's early next year."

"Win id far mi. 'K."

Alan grasped Gordon's hand. "You bet. I'll be listening out to hear you shouting as I cross that finish line."

Gordon looked for Scott. "Yi ceyp r bwod'rs 'n ln. 'K?"

Scott raised an amused eyebrow. "Don't I always keep our brothers in line? I thought that was my job."

"An yar da bezd ad id..." Gordon smiled a twisted smile. "Loogin forard ta zom abble by, Gwanma."

His Grandmother gently stroked his cheek. "You can tell me when you'll ready and I'll have an apple pie made for you before you can say lickety split."

"Lig-it-e Zzzsssplid... 'Memba nao zinamin."

Grandma laughed. "I remember. No cinnamon." She kissed her grandson on the forehead.

"Brr-chill..." here Gordon held out his hand and Virgil grasped it. "Dan q," he said; his eyes more eloquent than speech in his present condition. "Zsowi."

Virgil, like everyone else in the family, was doing his best to appear calm and relaxed. "No worries. You just get better and we'll forget about it. Okay?"

"'K... " Virgil felt a squeeze to his hand before he stood back to allow his father in close. "Dad... Diz iz da zsdard, wide? Da zsdard uf yar dweam?"

"The start of my dream?" Jeff asked, not sure that he understood.

Gordon's eyes tracked over his brothers and then back to his father. "Ya. Yar dweam. Yi codda mage id worg."

"I will, Gordon." Jeff held his son's hand to his chest. "I'll make it work with everyone's help... Including yours. Right?"

A nurse and an orderly entered the room.

Jeff leant close to the young man lying on the gurney. "I don't know how many of these grey hairs you've given me over the years, Gordon..." he growled, "...but nothing could induce me to give them back." His voice softened. "I love you, Son."

Gordon held his father's hand as tightly as his crippled hand could. He said something incomprehensible, but Virgil had no doubt that it was a heartfelt echo of Jeff's final statement.

"Are you ready, Gordon?"

Gordon started at the nurse's voice. He took a deep breath, smiled at his family and nodded. "Weady." But, as he was wheeled away, he didn't let go of his father's hand until the last possible moment.

Virgil's final image of his brother, seared into his brain as the doors closed between them, was of a tiny wave and a look that shook him to the core.

He realised that he probably wasn't the only one to see that expression when Grandma, who'd been staunch in her role as the calm foundation-of-the-family, burst into tears.

"Come here, Ma," Jeff pulled her close. "He'll be all right. Remember Gordon's not a quitter. He's not going to give up."

Virgil hoped he was right.

"Now what do we do?" Alan asked. "How many hours do we have to wait?"

Scott set the timer on his watch. "Mr Millington said at least 15..." He ran his hand through his hair. "It's going to be a long day."

John checked his own timepiece. "Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: _How much of human life is lost in waiting?_ I think we're about to find out."

Alan was still staring at those silent, blank doors. "What if he doesn't make it?"

"Don't talk like that, Alan." But there was no anger in Scott's admonishment as he put his arm about his kid brother's shoulders. "He'll make it."

"And I think we can guarantee that Mr Millington would do everything in his power to save him," John added.

"All he can do legally anyway..." Later Virgil was to decide that all his fears, all his worries, and the shock of seeing his grandmother break down, must have disconnected his brain from his mouth. There was no other explanation for his making such a statement.

But now his family was looking at him. "What do you mean by that, Virg?" Scott asked.

Puzzled Virgil stared at him. "Well, the D.N.R. limits how far he can go."

"D.N.R.? What D.N.R.!?" John demanded.

"The one Gordon..." Virgil became aware of all the blank, confused and horrified looks. "He must have told you that he signed one... Didn't he??"

"Are you telling us that Gordon asked not to be resuscitated?!" Scott demanded. "No way!!"

"Ah... M-Maybe I got it wrong," Virgil suggested, backpedalling furiously. "He's hard to understand sometimes. Maybe I only _thought_ he said D.N.R. Maybe he said something else and I thought he said D.N.R. Maybe he said," he chose three letters at random, "F.A.B?"

"No!" Jeff exploded. "He can't do that. Not after all the time and effort we've put into getting him better! Not after all the time and effort that _he's_ put in!" He released his mother; heading for the doors that had closed on his son. "I won't let him!"

He was stopped by his two eldest boys. "Dad!"

"You can't go in there," Scott said. "Not now. It's too late."

"They'll have started," John added. "You'll only make things worse."

Jeff raised his eyes heavenward and swallowed. Then he turned back to his miserable middle son. "You didn't misunderstand him, did you, Virgil."

Virgil knew that he hadn't. Those three terrible letters had been written, clear as day, on the texter's screen. "I..."

Alan came to his rescue. "Gordon had to be joking," he stated. "You know what he's like. And you know that Virgil's generally his number one target. When he didn't get the chance to admit that it was a joke he most likely assumed that Virgil would realise that it was. Right, Virgil?"

Virgil had never been so grateful for his little brother's assistance. "Yes! You must be right. I remember that we were interrupted when we were talking and we never finished the conversation. Gordon had to have been pulling my leg!"

He doubted that anyone believed him, but it was a lifeline that they could all cling to, so nothing more was said on the subject as the family walked to the waiting room that had been prepared for them.

Virgil dropped back behind everyone else so he was walking alongside Alan. "Thanks," he whispered.

Alan's response was equally quiet. "You didn't misunderstand, did you. And it wasn't a joke."

"No," Virgil admitted. "I'm one hundred percent sure that it wasn't."

"Why'd he tell you and no one else?"

"I wish I knew, like I wish he hadn't. I don't know how his brain's been working these last few months. I just know that he's had a lot of time to think and that it was a carefully considered decision."

In the waiting room each Tracy had stored items to help them while away the hours that were about to drag past. Virgil chose a seat next to Alan, feeling he was less likely to be interrogated there, put his headphones on, cranked up the volume to the maximum safe level, sat back and shut his eyes, hoping to cocoon himself from the outside world.

It didn't work. All he could see was that split-second image of Gordon. In that briefest moment Gordon's face had changed; changed from the relaxed persona that he'd displayed for the benefit of his family; changed so his real feelings were shown as clearly as if he'd texted them to the world.

Gordon was terrified.

Virgil didn't blame him. The idea of things crawling through your brain, even if they were microscopic nanobots trying to help you, was like a nightmare or an especially bad science fiction movie. He tried to push the image of the terrified face down into his subconscious, imagining the notes of the music as colours, and when that didn't work, picturing the score as if it was written on a sheet of paper.

That didn't work either.

Deciding that he needed something to keep the visual part of his brain occupied, he pulled a sketchpad out of his bag. But his pencil hovered over the page without making contact.

He slammed the sketchpad on the table beside him, pulled off his headphones, and stood. "I'm going for a walk."

No one tried to stop him.

Walking around the perimeter grounds of the Willis Institute, not willing to stray too far in case he was needed inside, he was joined by Scott after his first lap of the property. Not a word was said between them as they continued on their trek around, and around, and around...

At midday their watches beeped into life. "Boys." It was their father. "Grandma's got lunch ready over at the house."

No one felt like eating so no one did. They sat at the table and toyed with their food until it was no longer edible.

After lunch the men folk sat and watched a game on TV, though at the end of it no one could remember the score. Grandma bustled about in the kitchen, cooking to keep herself busy.

She supplied them all with a meal at 5 o'clock. Normally the family rule was that all meals were to be eaten at the table and that the TV had to be turned off. But today was to be an exception. The Tracys sat in front of the TV, plates balanced on their knees.

Despite not having eaten since a light breakfast early this morning, Virgil decided that he still wasn't hungry. His food lay on the coffee table untouched as he stared, unseeing, at the TV screen.

Scott was eating, but it wasn't the actions of a hungry man; rather that of an automaton going through the motions. Alan, also not hungry, tipped the contents of his plate onto his big brother's dish and Scott didn't even notice... He just continued working his way through a seemly never-ending plate of food.

John wasn't eating either. He had his watch in pieces on the table in front of him, as he sought to improve its range and efficiency. But all he was doing was taking it apart before reassembling it exactly the same way again.

Eventually Jeff looked at his own watch. "It's been 14 hours," he grunted. "I'm heading back over."

They still had another four hour wait after they'd returned to the waiting room. This time Virgil was able to occupy his mind with his music and his sketchpad, and the time, while it didn't race by, at least didn't seem to crawl quite as slowly.

He was almost surprised when the door to the waiting room opened and Mr Millington, the neurosurgeon who'd been holding Gordon's life in his hands for the last 18 hours, stood there. Despite his obvious tiredness, the surgeon smiled. "He did well. He came through with no complications."

"He's going to be okay?" Jeff asked, his voice rusty from hours of little use.

"We won't know for sure until we bring him out of the coma in four days time," the neurologist reminded him. "But there was nothing in the procedure to make me think that it wasn't a complete success."

Virgil felt as if a ten-ton weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

"Can we see him?" Jeff asked.

Mr Millington smiled. "Of course. I don't need to remind you of the need to keep communicating with Gordon... or where his room is." He stepped aside and allowed the Tracys to pass through the door.

It was with a déjà vu kind of feeling that Virgil walked back through the door into Gordon's room. There was the nurse at the desk in the corner, keeping an unobtrusive watch over her patient. There were the pale coloured walls and the machines and gauges...

...And there was Gordon lying still on his bed. Head bandaged, tubes feeding into his arms, and an oxygen mask on his face.

Jeff walked over to the bed, pulled up a chair, and picked up Gordon's right hand. "You made it, Son. You're over the first obstacle. Mr Millington says it went well and that you didn't pull any pranks on him. It's all up to you now. You've got to lie there and relax and heal. We're here and we'll look after you." He reached out and stroked a rough hand against a pale cheek. "It's only for four more days. We'll protect you."

"I've got your lucky charm." Virgil dropped the leather pouch over an unresponsive left foot. "There. Can you feel that?"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Thursday.

Thanksgiving.

Despite it being a public holiday, the hospital wing of the Willis Institute didn't shut down. Twice that day, once in the morning and again in the afternoon, Gordon was wheeled on his bed down to have a brain scan to check that he wasn't experiencing any complications.

There were none.

Mr Millington made his rounds during the day to check all was well, but, as he said, all he could do was what the Tracys were doing… Wait.

Catherine came in and, not willing to risk jarring his head in any way, restricted herself to working on exercising the muscles in Gordon's feet, forearms, and hands. Rose, even though there was nothing she could do to aid her patient's speech therapy, popped in to see how he was getting on and to give his family support.

Once the initial 24 hours had passed, it was decided that Gordon no longer needed a round-the-clock nursing watch, so the medical staff vacated the desk in the corner of the room; happy to continue watching over their patient via monitors in the nurses' station down the hall and leaving the Tracys to maintain their watch alone.

The family spent the long hours talking. Talking between themselves and talking to Gordon. They held one-sided conversations; two-sided conversations and six-sided conversations. They read the news from the paper and jokes from the thick joke books that Scott had purchased earlier in the week. Most of the gags were bad enough to elicit a groan from the group, but everyone knew that 'bad' was what Gordon enjoyed, and this was enough to make them persevere.

When they'd listened to one joke too many and had got tired of the doom and gloom in the newspapers, Virgil unpacked his portable keyboard and Scott got his guitar from the house. Together they played Gordon's favourite tunes and when they'd exhausted that source of material, accepted requests from the rest of the family. As time passed, and everyone began to relax, the day almost developed a party atmosphere, with laughter, singing, and more (but funnier) jokes.

During a lull in the conversation, when Grandma was off preparing a meal, Alan examined the device that had enabled Gordon to virtually swim through the waters of the world. "Don't you think he'd eventually get sick of seeing nothing but all these underwater shots? Why don't we video something else for him?"

"Like what?" Virgil asked.

"Umm…" Alan thought for a moment. "I could film what it's like to do a lap of the race track."

"That's what _you'd_ want to watch," Scott reminded him. "It's not exactly one of Gordon's interests."

"Okay…" Alan bit his lip and screwed up his forehead as he thought. "He likes a laugh. How filming some comedian…? Or!" He snapped his fingers. "Some dancing girls. He'd love to find himself in the middle of a group of dancing girls."

"Dancing girls?"

Jeff was looking at his youngest in astonishment, his eyebrows raised. "What type of dancing girls are you thinking of, Alan?"

Virgil was intrigued by the suggestion. "I take it you're not thinking of ballet."

"No! Quality stuff. Kinda like the Folies Bergere."

Now John's eyebrow had shot skyward. "Folies Bergere?"

Alan gave a wicked grin. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, Gordon?"

Gordon made no comment.

"You know," Scott mused. "Alan might not have a bad idea. We should find a suitable establishment and take our video cameras... strictly for medical purposes, of course," he added.

"Of course," Alan snickered.

Grandma bustled into the room, followed by one of the nurses, and pretended to not notice her grandsons' guilty expressions. "Everything's ready."

"Mother," Jeff protested.

"Mother nothing!" she responded. "Gordon will understand." She took up her grandson's unresisting right hand. "Gordon," she began. "It's Grandma, but you know that, don't you? I'm going to take everyone away from you for a little while, but you won't miss us too much because while we're gone you'll be having your scan, and we'll be here when you return. Plus you won't be alone because Amy will be staying with you." She smiled at the nurse before transferring Gordon's hand from her right to her left. Then she reached out so she was able to caress her grandson's cheek. "It's Thanksgiving, Honey, and we've got a lot to be thankful for. We're thankful that you enjoyed your time in the bathyscaphe and we're thankful that you came home before the hurricane hit. We're thankful that Virgil wasn't badly hurt when the gang attacked him and we're thankful that he and Alan were able to land that plane safely. We're thankful that Alan's doing so well with his racing, and that John returned safely from the space station, and I know that we're all still thankful that Scott survived his crash in Bereznick. And we're thankful that, unlike last year, we're all together today, even if you won't be sharing dinner with us… We're thankful that you survived the crash. We're thankful that, even if your body wasn't working properly, you were still you and that you could communicate with us. And we're thankful that you've been given this opportunity to get better again and that, so far, everything is looking positive. So you see, Gordon, we've got a lot to be thankful for and we're going to celebrate. But we won't forget you, Darling. I've set your place and we've all got party hats to wear. Now, don't you worry; I'll make sure your brothers wear them! … And then, when you're better and are able to join us for a meal, we'll have another, bigger, thanksgiving celebration, just because we're thankful to have you with us." She kissed Gordon's hand before placing it back on the bed. "We won't be long, Honey." After one final caress of his cheek she stood and turned to face her family. "Come along, everyone. Your dinner's getting cold." She started shooing her reluctant boys out the door. "We'll bring you something when we come back, Amy," she said as she passed the desk.

"Thank you, Mrs Tracy."

"Hold on!" Virgil reached out and switched on the music player. "He needs to be able to listen to something." Sounds of the sea washed out of the speakers.

"What did you do that for?" John asked.

"Gordon told me that last time he was in a coma he could hear everything that we said," Virgil looked at his father, "and did."

Jeff stared at him with a slight frown. "Everything?"

Virgil nodded. "He heard all the secrets we told him and the conversations we had about him." He looked down at his comatose brother. "He told me that he needed to be able to continue to hear things so that he'd know that he was still alive."

Scott folded his arms and glared at his brother. "What else has he told you, Virgil?" he demanded.

"That doesn't matter now," Jeff interrupted. "If you can hear me, Gordon, then don't worry. That's all in the past. It's time for you, and us all, to look forward to a brighter future..."

---F-A-B---

Over at the house, the table was set for seven, and, as Virgil took his seat between his grandmother and John, he couldn't help but notice the vacancy at one end where a party hat had been placed on the unblemished plate.

"I know he wasn't here last Thanksgiving either," Alan commented as he put his party hat on, "but it seems strange without Gordon here. Different from last time. At least last year we were able to talk to him on the videophone."

"I know what you mean, Alan." Jeff took his place at the head of the table. "But it won't be long before he'll be back with us."

Scott was examining his hat. "I'm glad to see you haven't got anything too silly, Grandma." He put the elastic under his chin and settled the brightly coloured cone onto his head.

"I wonder what, if anything, Gordon's aware of at the moment," John mused. "Thanks, Dad." He accepted a plate of meat. "You said he could hear us last time, Virg?"

"That's what he told me, but I don't know if it was only when he was in the 'natural' coma or the barbiturate-induced one."

"So you think he might be floating in some kind of blackness?" Alan asked. He gave a shiver. "Creepy."

"Maybe that's why his thumb was twitching last time?" Scott's face was creased in a thoughtful frown. "He was trying to reach out to us, to let us know that he was still with us, but that was the only part he could move?" He helped himself to a big helping of vegetables.

Alan gave another shiver. "Creepy," he repeated.

"Now, Boys, stop that," Grandma scolded gently. "This is a time to be grateful for what we have, and I for one am grateful that Gordon's still alive and will be released from the coma on Sunday. Peas, Honey?" She handed the bowl to Virgil.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

After the meal was finished, the Tracys continued to sit around the table, talking quietly. It hadn't been the most festive Thanksgiving they'd ever had, but nevertheless they were glad to simply be together.

Jeff looked at his watch. "Half an hour before Gordon's due back from his scan. We'd better think about heading back."

"You and Grandma go," Scott suggested. "We'll tidy up."

Virgil waited for Alan to start complaining, but the young blonde seemed more intent on finishing his second helping of dessert. Then he noticed that John didn't appear to be listening to the conversation and nudged his brother. "You're looking like you're miles away. Eaten too much?"

"No," John admitted, removing his serviette from his lap and placing it on the table. "Unlike Alan..."

"Hey!"

"I was just thinking about what day today is and what it means to us."

"I thought that Grandma covered that pretty well at the hospital." Alan scooped his last mouthful of dessert and dropped his spoon into the bowl.

"No. I don't mean us as a family. I was thinking about what today means for International Rescue. Today's D-day... Decision Day. Today's Dad's deadline for us to decide whether or not we're going to throw our hats into the ring." He removed his party hat and tossed into the middle of the table. "I'm in. How about you, Virgil?"

Virgil pulled his hat off and put it next to John's. "Never any doubts... What about you, Scott? Are you joining us?"

Scott had already removed his hat. "And miss out on the chance of actually getting paid to boss you fellas about?" With a grin he tossed it so it landed on Virgil's and rolled off, coming to rest beside John's. "Alan?"

"Me? Sit back and miss all the fun you guys will be having?" Alan chucked his hat beside his brothers. "No chance." He shot his father a guilty look. "That's if I'm allowed to belong?"

"No question about it." Jeff favoured him with a benevolent smile. "Well, I suppose that if you all are willing to join International Rescue, then you'd better have International Rescue to join." He placed his hat on top of the four belonging to his sons. "Thank you, Boys. I appreciate the fact that all my sons are going to be part of my dream... At least I hope you all are..."

Everyone turned to look at the solitary hat sitting on the plate at the other end of the table.

And everyone wondered...

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Without the festivities of Thanksgiving to break the tedium, Friday seemed to drag slower than Thursday. Saturday was even worse.

Finally it was Sunday.

Virgil awoke early that morning, aware of a sense of nervous anticipation. He got out of the sofa-bed and wandered into the bathroom, bumping into Scott who was on his way out. "Mornin'."

Scott, freshly showered after his early morning run, appeared obnoxiously bright and cheerful. "Morning, Virg. Sleep well?"

Virgil cuffed sleep from his eyes. "I'll sleep better when I know he's going to be all right. When did Mr Millington say they'd start bringing him out of the coma?"

"It depends on how this morning's scan looks. If all goes well they'll stop the drugs as soon as he gets back to his room. Then we wait some more for Gordon to wake up in his own sweet time."

"I hope he doesn't take as long as he did last time," Virgil admitted. "I don't think any of us could stand the strain."

Scott gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. "Go do what you've got to do, then I'll give you a hand with your bed so it's out of the way when Grandma surfaces."

"Thanks."

When everyone assembled in Gordon's room, they realised that they were missing one member of the family group. John looked at his watch. "They've taken him early."

"I suppose Mr Millington's as keen as we are to know if they can start releasing him from the coma," Jeff hypothesised, before, like his son, he looked at his watch. "I wonder how long he's been gone."

There was a sound at the door. "Long enough," Alan said and got up to clear some room for the bed.

Gordon was wheeled inside and repositioned with his head to the wall. As he was reconnected to all the sensors, IVs, and other paraphernalia, Mr Millington hurried into the room. "He's done well," he beamed. "I'm very pleased. We're going to start reducing the barbiturate and, should you decide to cooperate," he said to the patient before looking back at the rest of the family, "Gordon should be awake by early tomorrow."

"That long!" Grandma exclaimed.

Mr Millington treated her to a sympathetic smile. "I know it seems a long time, but, based on past experience, it's for the best. Think of it this way, this time tomorrow your grandson should be awake to give you cheek again."

Jeff sat back with a sigh of some relief. "So we're heading for 'atmospheric re-entry and we'll be touching down soon'?"

The neurologist beamed with delight. "I love these astronautical references. Yes, Mr Tracy. Gordon is close to touching down and I'm quietly confident that it will be a soft landing."

John chuckled. "Knowing Gordon, he'll have fed us the wrong co-ordinates."

"Yeah," Alan added. "He'll deploy a bogus parachute to confuse us."

Mr Millington entered a few codes into a computer console. "The computer is now programmed to slowly reduce the rate of barbiturate infusion. You're approaching 'atmospheric re-entry', Gordon."

"He'd rather be decompressing as he ascends," Scott corrected.

Mr Millington laughed. "I should have known... I have other patients that I have to see, but I will return shortly..." He was as good as his word, returning to check up on his patient at least once every hour.

As for the Tracys, none of them were willing to leave Gordon's side, even to retire that evening. Instead they sat by his bedside, continuously searching out for the first sign that he was reawakening, or in John's words, "resurfacing."

It was midway through the following morning when the neurologist announced that the young man was showing signs of regaining consciousness. "There are definite changes to his brain activity. Talk to him. Let him know that you are waiting for him."

"How soon before we'll know if he's got feeling back in his arms and legs?" Virgil asked. "Can we encourage him to move?"

"As I've said before, don't expect him to display a full range of movement, but you should see some reaction in his extremities. Thanks to Catherine's efforts, he won't have lost too much muscle tone to his hands and feet over these last four days."

"Did I hear my name mentioned?" Catherine smiled at her colleague. "I asked the nursing staff to let me know when he was coming around." She took a seat against the wall so that she could observe her patient's condition without intruding on the family.

It was another hour before that patient showed some signs of awakening. "Gordon..." Jeff said softly. "It's Dad, Gordon... Come on, Son," he picked up Gordon's right hand. "It's time to wake up."

Still unsure as to whether her grandson would be aware of her touch, Grandma held his left hand. "Your father's right, Young Man. It's time you were out of that bed."

Alan laughed. "That brings back memories."

Gordon's head twitched.

"That's it, Gordon," Jeff cajoled. "Come back to us."

Gordon's eyes flickered.

Scott leant on the footboard at the end of the bed. "Hey, Gordy. We've got all sorts of fun things planned for you when you get out of here, but you've got to be awake to enjoy them."

"Yeah," John added. "If you don't wake up, we'll just have to do them without you."

"And Alan's got his final race coming up," Virgil said. "You'll want to be awake to see that."

"Yes!" Alan piped up. "You've got to get strong enough so that you can come to the track to watch me race. I'll make sure that you get the best seats on the circuit."

Gordon's eyes flickered again and then half opened. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out... He closed his eyes again.

"Come on, Gordon," Jeff prompted. "Open your eyes, Son."

Gordon succeeded, looking around his family. He opened his mouth to speak and uttered a dry, raspy croak.

"What was that, Son?"

Gordon tried again, fixing his eyes on his brothers... This time he was able to vocalise and, although his words were slow and his speech slurred, they were still recognisable. "Therez da com-e-de-enz. Wherz da danzin' girlz?" he mumbled before closing his eyes again.

Everyone laughed, relieved that, if nothing else, Gordon didn't appear to have lost his sense of humour. He half-opened his eyes again and a small, but still lopsided, smile crept onto his face.

"You can sleep soon, Gordon," Jeff told him. "But first, can you squeeze my hand?"

Gordon turned his head a little so his heavily-lidded eyes were looking at his father. "Lyg thfiz?"

From Virgil's vantage point at his grandmother's shoulder, he could see four fingers and a thumb tighten their grip on his father's hand. Jeff's face broke out into a smile of pure joy. "Yes, Gordon. Just like that."

"How about me, Gordon?" Grandma asked, as Virgil put his arm about her shoulders. "Can you squeeze my hand?"

Gordon rotated his head the other way, further than he'd been able to manage five days ago. "Hi, Gwanma," he said, before his forehead creased in a frown of concentration. As he focused his attention on his left hand, nothing appeared to happen.

"Don't concentrate so hard, Gordon," Catherine advised, and Virgil realised that he'd forgotten that she was there. "It's been a while since your brain's used that bit of circuitry and it's got to relearn how everything works. Here... Excuse me, Mrs Tracy," she took Gordon's hand from Grandma and massaged its muscles. "Are you feeling that?"

Now Gordon's frown appeared confused. "Dunno."

"Don't worry. Like I said, your brain's still relearning the mechanisms related to touch and movement... Would you like to take his hand again, Mrs Tracy?" Catherine stood back. "Now, Gordon... Relax and try again, Try squeezing both hands at once. Imagine you're riding a motorbike and holding the handlebars."

"Or better still," John sat forward, "imagine you're windsurfing and holding the control bar."

"Yes," Virgil added. "Imagine it's a perfect day... The sky's blue... You can feel the wind pulling at the sail... Grip tight and go for the ride."

Gordon looked at him and gave a small nod of understanding. Then he fixed his attention back on his grandmother's face.

Still nothing happened.

Despite her obvious disappointment, Grandma remained strong. "Don't worry, Honey." She gave her grandson's hand a reassuring rub. "It's still early days yet. You'll get there."

"She's right, Gordon," Mr Millington agreed. "This doesn't mean that your condition hasn't improve..."

He stopped speaking when Grandma uttered a small exclamation. "Oh! Gordon! Did you move your fingers?" She looked at the bony hand. "Do it again!" There was the tiniest of movements and a delighted smile transformed his grandmother's face. "I felt you move! Gordon...! You did it! I knew you could!" Elated, she kissed him on the cheek. "I can't wait to tell everyone!" She beamed at him and, as Gordon smiled back, Virgil fancied that those previously frozen muscles on the left side of his face had re-mobilised a little.

Excited by this new discovery Scott pulled the sheets out from the bottom of the bed and threw them back so his younger brother's feet lay exposed. "Can you move them too?!"

"Come on, Gordon!" John exclaimed. "Move those feet! Pretend you're doing the backstroke!"

Gordon gave a sigh. "Tir'd."

"Doggie paddle then," Virgil suggested. "Just try once!"

Scott tickled the sole of Gordon's right foot. "Can you feel that?"

"No..." Gordon's tired eyes were closed.

"How about that?" Scott repeated the gesture on the other foot.

"...No..."

Alan grabbed a tissue from the box beside the bed. He twisted the paper so that it was a stiff rod with a feathery tip, and ran the soft end up his brother's right sole.

Gordon's foot twitched and his toes curled.

"Yes!" John cheered. "Try the other, Alan."

Alan repeated the experiment with no success.

"Here," John handed over the lucky charm in its bag. "Put that on his foot."

Scott grabbed the pouch and wrapped it around the immobile foot. "Can you feel that, Gordon?"

Gordon's left big toe jerked. "Did-I do't?"

"You did it," Alan applauded.

Gordon's mouth curled up slightly. "'V'ryone 'appy?" he asked.

"Very happy…" And Jeff Tracy was not alone in having a grin that was almost splitting his face in two.

In fact, Virgil realised that his smile was so big that his cheeks were hurting and he had to rub them to ease the pain. He patted Gordon on the arm. "Welcome back."

Gordon managed another smile. "Dankyo..." Exhausted, his eyes finally closed and he drifted off back to sleep.

"I think we'd better leave him," Mr Millington whispered. "Would you mind if we went through into your unit?"

Once everyone had crowded into the tiny room, an elated Jeff held out his hand to the neurologist. "What can I do to thank you, Mr Millington?" he asked pumping the man's hand. "You've achieved a miracle."

"You can start by not getting your hopes up just yet. I'll admit that all the signs are encouraging, but Gordon's still got a long way to go before he reaches full fitness... That's assuming that we are reading the signs right."

"Are you suggesting that those movements were only reflexes?" Grandma asked. She stared the neurologist in the eye. "Because I know what I felt!"

"I'm sure you did," he soothed, "just as that movement of his left foot seemed to be a voluntary action rather than a reflexive one. But I will need to make further tests before I'm willing to categorically say that the only thing standing between Gordon and a full recovery is Gordon."

"I don't think you'll be able to hold him back," Virgil stated. "Not now that he knows that it's all down to him."

John held up his cell phone into which he'd been typing a text message. "How does this sound? _G just awake. Movement of hands and feet. Dozing now. Next txt will have more news._ Okay?"

"Send it, John," Scott ordered. "There are a lot of people waiting for that call."

John pushed send. "They'll be happy now."

It was only seconds later when every cell phone in the room started buzzing. Alan was quickest on the draw. "It's from my manager. Karl says that that's good news and maybe now I'll be able concentrate on racing…" He looked embarrassed. "And this one's from Tin-Tin saying how happy she is."

"And I've got one from Kyrano," Jeff said. "Saying that the gods are finally smiling on us… One from Lady Penelope congratulating you, Mr Millington… One from Brains: he's been following Gordon's progress over the Internet. And here's one from Hamish. _Wonderful news._ _Does this mean I'm getting one of my best employees back tomorrow?_" He raised an amused eyebrow in Virgil's direction. "I think you're missed."

Scott looked up, the light from his cell phone reflecting onto his face. "I think people have been more understanding and more inconvenienced than we've realised."

"I'd guarantee it..." Virgil was scrolling through his own list of messages. "Lisa's saying it's wonderful and that we're to give Gordon a big kiss from her… I think I'll leave that job to you, Grandma." She chuckled. "Butch has only typed one word, terrific, spelt T-R-E-F-I-K. Bruce says that they were working when they received the message and that everyone's phone went off at once." He laughed. "Including Greg's. So much for company rules."

There were dozens of other texts to work through, from friends and relations. All were offering up their congratulations and best wishes to the Tracy family…

Especially to Gordon.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The patient awoke again early that afternoon and his first words were, "Where'z Cath'rine? Led'z ged ztarted."

"She might be working with someone else," Jeff reminded him. "She's a busy lady."

"I'll go see if she's going to be free soon," Scott offered. He pointed at Gordon. "Don't do anything spectacular until I'm back." He returned a short time later. "I told the nurses and they're going to try to page her… Now," he settled back into his chair. "Let's see what you can do."

"Here," Alan pressed the 'raspberry ball' into Gordon's left hand. "Squeeze this."

The sound Gordon made with the ball wasn't so much a raspberry as an overripe gooseberry, but his face, weak side and all, beamed in delight. "Where'z my feed." John folded back the sheets so that two bony feet were exposed. "Im a zkelliton."

"Then you'll just have to work hard to get your muscles built up again," John said. He ran his thumbnail up the sole of one of Gordon's feet. "Can you feel that?"

"Yez…" Gordon frowned at his right toe. "Weird... Can'd 'member whad t'do."

"What would Catherine do?" Virgil asked. "Try moving his foot, John."

"How come I'm the one working on Gordon's smelly feet?"

"'Cos you offered," Alan told him.

"Besides, they haven't done anything to start smelling," Scott reminded him. "Just flex his foot."

"Okay." John looked at Gordon. "Don't go kicking me across the room. Okay?"

Gordon chuckled. "Kay." He watched as his brother moved the lump of skin and bone at the end of the bed and tried to work out which muscles were working. "Here goez…" There was nothing… Then a twitch… And then his whole right foot pointed forward a centimetre before relaxing back. "Yez!"

"Well done, Son," Jeff applauded. "Can you do the same with the other one?"

"What's this? Starting without me?" Catherine asked as she strode into the room. "How are you feeling now, Gordon?"

"More awak. I moved my food. All by myselv." Gordon managed to point down the bed with his stronger right hand. "Now Im gonna do the otha."

"Do you want me to move it first?" John asked.

"Yez." Gordon concentrated on the sensations he was receiving and then managed to replicate them. His left foot didn't move as far as the right, but it was enough to cheer the group.

"Well done," Catherine congratulated. "Your speech is a lot clearer too. Rose will be impressed… Do you want me to start working on you?"

"Yez." Gordon nodded.

"Right!" Catherine rolled up her sleeves. "Do you remember what I said to you first time we worked together? About how a champion swimmer like you must have done a lot of working out in the gym."

"Yez."

"Good. Pretend you've just finished working out and a pretty girl's walking past…"

"Lige you."

Catherine coloured slightly, but retained her professional demeanour. "Can you can show me, uh, her your biceps?" She flexed his arm a couple of times to make sure that the joint was free and then sat back. "Your turn." Straining slightly Gordon bent his elbow, raising his forearm a few inches off the bed. Catherine smiled. "Not bad for a guy who's been unconscious for half a week. You'll have the ladies falling at your feet in no time."

Delighted, Gordon laughed.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil didn't fly back home until late Monday evening. He felt no guilt about missing a day off work and no one attempted to tell him that he shouldn't be staying at the Willis Institute. He would have ignored them if they had.

As his plane left the Willis airfield and flew up into the darkening skies, Virgil breathed a sigh of contentment. It looked as if things were finally coming right for the family and that soon, very soon, they'd be able to begin their work on International Rescue in earnest.

_To be continued…_


	22. A Quiet Surprise

**22: A Quiet Surprise**

Virgil spent much of Tuesday's breaks telling his friends about the stresses of the previous week and how great it was that all tests seemed to be indicating that Gordon, once he'd got his strength back, was on his way to a full recovery.

He was therefore surprised when he received a phone call from Jeff Tracy on Wednesday evening. "Would you be willing to take the day off tomorrow, Virgil?"

Virgil stared at his father's image. "Take the day off? You mean take the day off work?? Why? Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure," Jeff admitted. "Gordon refuses to get into the pool."

"Huh…?" At first Virgil wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. He worked the phrase around in his mind and could come up with no viable alternatives. "Did I hear you right? Gordon refuses to get in the water? Our Gordon!?"

"I know it's hard to believe," his father responded. "But Catherine tried to get him to do some exercises in the pool on Tuesday and again today. She said that it would be good for him because he'll be working against the water's resistance. She wants to get him upright and walking in an environment where he can build up his muscle strength while there's no weight on his leg bones and he's supported… But Gordon refuses to go in."

"How do you mean 'refuses'?"

"At first he was giving lots of excuses. He was frightened that he'd get water into his head wounds and would get an infection. He wasn't feeling well. He had a headache. Then, this afternoon, he outright refused. He wouldn't even listen to me."

Virgil frowned. "And you think _I_ could change his mind?"

"Yes, Virgil, I do." Jeff Tracy fixed his son with an earnest stare. "I don't know what went on between the pair of you, but whatever it was, Gordon clearly trusted you with something important."

"I don't know that he trusts me any more than anyone else," Virgil corrected. "It was more like I was the path of least resistance because I was only there on the weekends and I'm older than him."

"Maybe," Jeff acquiesced, "but even so I think your presence could help. Will you do it?"

Virgil gave a wry grin. "You're the boss. If ACE will let me have time off then I'm more than happy to help Gordon. But are you sure Scott and John wouldn't have a better chance of talking him around? Or Grandma? After all, they've been with him right through this."

"They've tried, but he's not listening to them either. Also, your grandmother's gone home for a couple of days and to bring Rick and Diane back. And I've sent your brothers home to Tracy Island to start cranking things up again. If we're going to do what we've got planned for the 28th, then everything's got to be shipshape… And Gordon's got to be strong enough."

"Okay," Virgil agreed. "I'll be out there first thing tomorrow. Are you going to call Uncle Hamish or shall I?"

"I'll call and explain," Jeff said. "He'll understand."

"While you're doing that I'll call Greg and warn him. The poor guy's looking stressed enough as it is trying to work out the work schedules; without losing me again."

"Tell him, off the record, that I'll make it up to him," Jeff said.

"Apart from the aversion to the pool, how's Gordon getting on?" Virgil asked.

"He's doing well. They tried him on solid foods today, but it's the first time since his accident and he brought it straight back up. Once he realised that he's got to take it slowly and not bolt it down like he usually does, it went a lot better. But his whole digestive tract's still getting used to the idea." Jeff made a face. "It's not only his arm and leg muscles relearning how to work… You're lucky you weren't here."

"Maybe it's just as well he's not using the pool."

"That's one of his excuses, but the medical staff say that they can regulate things like that." Jeff sighed. "I hope you and I can get him in the water again tomorrow. There's something unnerving about Gordon Tracy having an aversion to water."

"Tell me about it." Virgil treated his father to a reassuring smile. "Anyway, I'll be out at the Willis tomorrow and we'll see what we can do to change his mind."

"Thank you, Virgil. We'll see you in the morning… Don't forget your swimming trunks…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"Whad are you doin' here!?"

Virgil smiled at his younger brother. "I heard that Scott and John have been sent packing and I thought you might like some company."

"Bud whad …?" Gordon stopped and tried again. "Bud-t whad-t aboud-t worg?" He sighed in frustration.

"You'll get there," Virgil told him. "You're a lot easier to understand than you were this time last week."

"Thiz dime… time lasd weeg I waz unconjus… un-con-she-ous."

"Which proves my point."

"Which doezn' anzer my cwesshun."

Virgil was saved from answering Gordon's question when Jeff entered the room. "Hello, Virgil? What are you doing here?"

In actual fact Virgil and his father had already met this morning and made plans. "Playing truant," he responded. "Don't tell the boss." He pulled at his collar. "Why do they have to make hospitals as hot as saunas? Now we're nearly into winter it's getting cold outside and then you have to walk into what feels like a furnace. It can't be good for you."

Jeff chuckled. "I've often thought that. I think hospitals must try to drum up business… Don't worry, you'll soon acclimatise."

Catherine came bustling in. "Hello, Virgil," she said, pretending to be surprised, even though she'd been involved with the earlier discussions. "I didn't think we'd be seeing you until Friday at the earliest."

"Hi, Catherine. I can't quite believe that Gordon's getting better, so I had to reassure myself that it's not a dream."

She smiled. "I can guarantee that it's not a dream… In fact you're here just in time to see Gordon get some exercise in the pool."

"The pool!" Virgil exclaimed. "You must be looking forward to that, Gordon. It'll be like going home."

Gordon, however, was looking alarmed. "I don' feel well 'nough."

"Again?" Catherine checked the monitors on the wall. "You don't have a temperature."

"If you did, a cool swim might be the solution," Virgil ventured. "I wouldn't mind something to cool me down about now." He began to wonder if he was overdoing the overheating line and resolved not to say any more until the right time.

"Come on, Gordon, I'm not going to let you off that easily," Catherine half scolded. "How about we get you into the wheelchair and wheel you down to the pool. Maybe once you remind yourself how shallow it is you'll feel differently about going for a swim?"

"No, I won'd… will… not."

"Well, just in case, we'll get you ready," Catherine told him. She turned to the other two Tracys. "If you gentlemen will excuse us…"

Jeff smiled at her. "Of course. We'll be waiting in the unit. Let us know when you're ready."

Virgil followed his father into the little room next to Gordon's. "He really doesn't want to go in that pool, does he? What do you suppose is wrong?"

"I don't know," Jeff admitted. "Catherine had been putting him through hydrotherapy the last few weeks before his operation. At first it was simply to try to maintain his circulation, but once she knew that there was a chance he'd walk again, she had been working to try to boost his muscle tone so he'd be ready."

"So it's not like this is a new experience for him," Virgil noted.

"No. But I did notice that whenever Gordon was in the pool, he was always very quiet. I put it down to him trying to reconcile himself to the idea that he might never swim unaided again, but now I'm not so sure."

"Maybe you're right," Virgil suggested. "Maybe he's worried that he won't be as good a swimmer as he was? We both know that he set himself high standards…"

There was a knock on the door and Jeff opened it. "Ready, Catherine?"

"We're ready," Catherine said. "Good luck," she added in a whisper. "He's not making this easy."

Wearing a helmet that covered the weakened bones of his skull and protected his wounds from the water, and dressed in a robe, Gordon was sitting in a wheelchair that supported his back and neck. "Dad… Don'd… Don't… wand-t to do thiz. Don'd feel well. Don'd mage me," he pleaded.

"You're only going to be looking at the pool," Jeff reassured him. "You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

Gordon looked like he did have a problem with that, but he said nothing.

During the walk through the complex, Virgil did his best to keep up a light-hearted, non-water related conversation with his brother, father, Catherine, and the two orderlies who'd been assigned to help. It seemed that, so long as they stayed off the topic that was at the forefront of everyone's minds, Gordon was more than willing to participate.

The entered the hydrotherapy room. "This place is worse than the rest of the hospital. It's like a sauna!" Virgil commented without thinking. Already he was feeling beads of sweat trickle down his neck.

"We've deliberately turned the heat up a little," Catherine admitted quietly. "Just to help the deception."

One of the orderlies pushed Gordon's chair so that it was facing the pool, close to the sling that was designed for lifting patients in and out of the water, but not near enough that Gordon would feel threatened. Then he and his associate retired a distance away and sat down.

Virgil pulled up a chair next to Gordon's. "You've been in here before?" he asked.

"Yeah…" Gordon submitted to having a brace put around his neck to help his weakened muscles support his head. "Few timez…"

"Do they use that sling thing to get you in and out?"

"Yeah," Gordon said warily.

"Looks like fun," Virgil commented; more interested in the mechanics of the device than what it would be like to experience a ride.

"You t-ry it."

"Maybe later."

They sat in silence.

Virgil undid the top buttons of his shirt. "It sure is hot in here." He eyed up the pool. "I think the last time I had a swim was just after I'd been beaten up by that gang. You never realise how… um… liberating water can be until you discover how much it can loosen you up."

Catherine stared at him wide-eyed. "You were beaten up by a gang?!"

"Yeah. I didn't tell these guys," Virgil indicated his brother and father, "but even a week later I was still stiff and sore. So I had a swim in Gordon's pool, mainly to get some exercise. But I felt a heck of a lot better afterwards because I was able to work out a lot of the kinks without any stress on my body."

"It sounds like you needed the services of a good massage therapist," Catherine commented. "It's a shame we didn't know each other then." She paused. "If I'm not prying, how did you manage to get beaten up? Were you mugged?"

"I was at friends' fifth wedding anniversary party. Butch, that's the husband, had been an associate member of this gang until he met Lisa. He'd given up on gang life, but the gang crashed the party to help him 'celebrate'. Unfortunately I got caught up in the 'action' when they were asked to leave."

"You should've zeen 'im!" Gordon exclaimed, his eyes shining as he focussed on something other than the pool in front of him. "A kid bideod…videoed the fighd and we watch'd'd later. He wasz _awezome_. He dook… took on the gang zingle-handed…"

If it was possible to go any redder in this heat, Virgil felt himself do so. "Hardly single-handed…"

"Bruze was knockt out in the firzd zecond," Gordon proclaimed. "And Butch waz only interezded in prodecding Liza. You were the one oo deald wid the rezd of them."

"And they nearly dealt with me," Virgil reminded him. "Once they got me on the ground I was dead meat. If the cops hadn't shown up when they did, you would have been visiting me in here instead of the other way around."

"I'd rather not be reminded about that incident," Jeff groaned. "Let's talk about something else…"

Virgil leant forward so that he could look past his brother. "Such as…?"

"Well… I know what you mean by how liberating water can be. When I was in astronaut training they wanted us to get used to working in our spacesuits. I don't know if you've ever seen those things, Catherine, but you feel like a cross between Michelin Man and a walrus trying to get about on land. If I hadn't had someone holding me upright and steering me in the right direction, I could never have got anywhere. So, to simulate weightlessness, they put us in a pool that must have been at least three times the depth of this one. The difference between being in the water and on land was amazing. It didn't quite feel like zero gravity because of the resistance of the water, but it came pretty darn close."

"You've had an amazing life, Mr Tracy," Catherine said.

Jeff grinned. "And it ain't over yet." He stretched and then removed his jacket. "It sure is hot in here. Has the heating broken or something?"

"I did mention the temperature to the caretaker," Catherine admitted in a wonderful piece of double entendre. "He said he'd do what he could."

"This is getting too much for me." Virgil pulled at his collar again. "That pool looks inviting, Catherine, would you mind if I had a swim?"

She extended her hand towards the pool. "Be my guest."

"Thanks." Ignoring Gordon's surprised expression; Virgil pulled off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and removed his trousers. He was already wearing his swimming trunks; a pair especially chosen because they could have doubled as underwear in appearance. With no further comment he strode over to the side of the pool and dove in, staying underwater for several metres before surfacing. He swam one lap of the pool in freestyle, the second breaststroke, before finishing up with Gordon's Olympic specialty, the butterfly.

"That's better." He stopped at the side of the pool and looked up at his audience. "I'm out of practise, Gordon. You'll have to give me some pointers." But, before his brother could respond, he flung himself away from the side of the pool and did two laps of nearly flawless backstroke.

"You know," Jeff commented as he watched his son's progress. "Virgil's right. That water does look refreshing." He pulled off his shirt. "I'm going to join Virgil. Are you joining us, Catherine?"

She gave a smile. "I'd love to, but I'm 'working'."

Jeff winked at her. "I'll have to see if I can cool you down anyway." He waited until Virgil was a suitable distance away and then bombed the pool, soaking everyone within striking range. He surfaced next to his son. "He's getting fidgety," he whispered.

"Good."

The pair found themselves at the end of the pool next to Gordon. Jeff grinned at Virgil. "Race ya to the other end and back."

Virgil grinned. "Are you sure? I'd hate to be the one to show you up."

"Show me up?!" Jeff exclaimed in mock indignation. "I'll show you, Boy…! Ready…? Three… Two… One!" He pushed Virgil under the water and then took advantage of his son's distraction to get a head start.

Spluttering at the unexpected dunking, Virgil resurfaced, and then took off. He'd nearly caught up by the time Jeff was on the turn and reached the end a good two metres in front of his father.

"I'm out of practise," Jeff said ruefully.

"You haven't been keeping up your exercise regime," Virgil pointed out. "You're not as fit as you were."

They looked over at Gordon who was being shifted into the sling. "We haven't noticed," Jeff whispered. And then, louder, said; "I'll teach you to beat your old man!" He splashed Virgil.

Laughing, Virgil splashed him back before diving under the water, grabbing his father's legs and pulling him down.

Jeff resurfaced. "Why you…" He retaliated.

They were having such fun that they missed the quiet sound of a motor in operation. It wasn't until Virgil nearly pulled Catherine, dressed in her wetsuit and carrying a controller, under the water that he realised that something was happening. "Oops… Sorry," he apologised.

She laughed. "That's all right. I'd like to join you in your game, but like I said, I'm working." She pushed a button on the controller and the sling, holding Gordon, swung out over the water.

Virgil swum closer to his brother. "So you've decided to join the fun?"

Gordon didn't look like he was having fun. In fact, he appeared to be terrified: so terrified that he was visibly shaking and his tremors were transferring to the sling, which was swaying.

Jeff knew that Gordon's pride wouldn't accept the knowledge that others could see his fear, so he pretended that nothing was amiss. "That device has got a case of the wobbles," he said, reaching out and laying a steadying hand on his son's leg. His father's touch seemed to reassure the young man and the quivering lessened, but the fear remained in Gordon's eyes.

Virgil went along with the subterfuge. "Looks like it needs a few bolts tightening," he commented.

"I'll get maintenance to check it out later," Catherine agreed. "In the meantime… Okay if I lower you a bit, Gordon? Just until your feet are touching the water?"

Gordon gulped. Then he nodded.

There was a quiet hum and the sling drew closer to the water, Jeff maintaining his steadying hand on Gordon's leg.

When his toes touched the water, Gordon drew them back sharply as if he'd been stung by an electric shock. It wasn't the reaction that anyone had expected, but at least it meant that he was exercising his muscles, so no one passed comment.

He sat there; legs shaking with the effort of keeping his feet out of the water. He bit his lip. He frowned. He took a deep breath and held it. Then he relaxed and let his toes touch the surface.

He let his breath out in a juddering sigh.

Virgil swum closer, but not so close that he could touch his brother. "Bet you can't splash me."

Gordon looked at him. "Zplash you?" He looked down at his legs as if he was trying to work out which were the correct bits to move. He pulled his left leg back a few centimetres, and then relaxed the muscles. A small ripple creased the surface of the pool, bouncing off Virgil's chest.

Virgil pretended to be overcome by the force of the 'surge' and disappeared under the water. When he resurfaced Gordon was laughing.

"Ready to go a bit lower, Gordon?" Catherine asked.

He hesitated. Then a determined look overtook Gordon's face. "Yez."

Virgil swam to the side opposite his father and mirrored Jeff's actions. Catherine pressed the button and slowly, but surely, Gordon sunk closer to the water's surface until the base of the sling was just touching.

Up to this point Gordon hadn't released his white-knuckled grip of the sides of the sling. He took a deep breath, tentatively reached down with his right hand, and touched the water. He gave a half-smile of satisfied pride.

Here it was deep enough for a person to stand easily with their head above the water and Catherine positioned herself so that she was in front of her patient. She took Gordon through a few leg exercises, getting him to push against the resistance of the water. "You're doing well," she congratulated. "Now, before we finish for the day, would you be willing to try standing and taking a few steps for me?"

The panicked look reappeared in Gordon's eyes and he stared at his father as if hoping to receive permission to deny the request.

But Jeff wasn't prepared to do so. "I think it wouldn't hurt to try, Gordon," he said. "Just two steps and then we'll get you out of the pool. Virgil and I will hang on to you."

"You… You won'd led my head ged wed?"

"No chance," Virgil confirmed. "We'll have a grip on you tighter than a limpet on the hull of a boat."

Gordon looked into his brother's eyes as if he was searching out any hint of a lie and Virgil held his gaze. The red-head swallowed. "Okay."

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he felt the water rise up his torso. Virgil helped him place his arm about his father's shoulders so that Jeff could hold onto his son's right hand and keep a tight grip about his waist.

Then Virgil swum back to Gordon's left side. "Let your arm float on the water," he instructed, before swimming underneath and, yet again, mirroring his father's position. "There… Gotcha," he murmured as he grasped the support harness at his brother's waist. "You're not going anywhere we don't want you."

"Don'd led me go."

Gordon's pleading entreaty was the first real acknowledgement of the fear that he felt and Virgil and his father looked at each other in silent recognition. Then Jeff spoke. "It's all right, Son. We have you. We're not going to let you go."

"I'm going to lower the sling now," Catherine informed them. "I'll slide it out from under you, Gordon, and you can let your legs fall downwards. Don't worry, your father and Virgil won't let you slip… There… That's all right, isn't it?"

Gordon was breathing heavily through his mouth. He gave a tight nod. He let his legs relax until the soles of his feet were flat on the bottom of the pool.

"Great!" Jeff enthused. "You're standing, Gordon. You're standing!"

"Wonderful," Catherine beamed. She swam around so that she was in front of him. "Now, there's no rush. Give yourself a chance to get used to being upright again. Let us know when you're ready for the next stage."

Gordon waited a moment. Then he nodded. "Ready."

"Okay. Have you got a good grip of him, Gentlemen...? Now, Gordon, I want you to shift your weight on to your right foot... Not too far," she cautioned. "Now, lean back towards Virgil... That's it; shift your weight onto your left foot." They repeated the process several times. "How's that?"

"Zoles zore."

"That's too be expected. They're not used to having pressure on them. Do you want to leave it there or carry on?"

Gordon deliberated for a moment. "Carry on."

"Good," Catherine approved. "The first step, as it were, is to get your body used to having most of your weight on one foot. I'm sure your dad will be able to support you, so I want you to bend your left knee and lift your foot off the ground. Don't try taking a step yet, she continued. "We just want to give your body a chance to relearn old sensations."

"Okay..." Gordon rocked to the right and raised his left leg a couple of centimetres off the bottom of the pool.

"Now the other leg," Catherine encouraged. "Lean towards Virgil and raise your right foot... And back..." She guided Gordon from one side to the other, continuously offering words of encouragement. "And relax... You're doing fantastically well. How does that feel?"

"'Kay."

"Do you want to try a few steps? Remember this isn't a race. There's no hurry."

Gordon gave her a haunted look then, slowly, he picked up his right leg, swung it forward mere centimetres, and placed it back down on the bottom of the pool. Jeff, keeping pace with the action, moved forward slightly. Virgil didn't move: bracing his brother so that he couldn't fall.

"Well done!" Catherine approved. "What was that saying, Mr Tracy? _One small step for a man_?"

Jeff's grin was from ear-to-ear. "And one giant leap for Gordon-kind."

"Now, shift your weight onto that leg, Gordon." Catherine placed her hands on either side of her patient's chest and encouraged him to move his body weight. "Your dad will support you… Now, bring forward your left leg."

Virgil felt Gordon roll away from him and tightened his grip before taking a tiny step forward himself. Gordon placed his left leg beside the right and squared up to his therapist. "Dunnid."

"Yes, you have," she agreed.

"Do id again… Brichil leg firsd."

Catherine beamed at him. "I'm not going to stop you. See if you can swing your Virgil leg further forward this time."

Gordon looked down, frowning in concentration as he worked on shifting his weight, moving his leg, and then bracing it on the bottom of the pool. "Now Dad leg."

"Look up this time," Catherine suggested. "If you look down you'll shift your weight forward and you're more likely to overbalance… That's it," she approved. "This is wonderful… Are you ready to go back to your room now?"

Gordon shook his head. "No. More."

"Are you sure?"

"Yez."

"Good. We'll start with your 'Dad leg' this time."

Gordon grinned. "Bet you never thoughd you'd be teachin' me do walk afder all this dime," he sad to his father.

"True, I never did, but I'm glad I can help you now."

With considerably more confidence, Gordon finished a full step, walking both his 'Dad' and 'Virgil' legs. "Do 'noder."

"Aren't you tired?" Catherine asked.

"No. I wand do do 'noder."

"You'll walk too far away from the sling and we won't be able to get you out of the water."

Gordon gave her a look of steely determination. "Den I'll walg bacg."

"Are you sure, Gordon?" Jeff asked. "You're sounding tired."

"I wand do walg!"

"Why don't we turn around here and walk back," Virgil suggested. "Okay, Gordon?"

"'Kay."

"Lift your legs up and we'll swing you around," Jeff said. "You can start working on the tricky manoeuvres, like turning, tomorrow."

"'Kay." Gordon lifted both legs off the bottom of the pool and Virgil and his father, performing a weird kind of dance, rotated about so that they were facing the sling again.

When they were facing the right way, Gordon placed the soles of his feet back on the floor of the pool. "Righd!" he said in determination. "Dad leg den Br… Bvr… Vrir… Den I'm goin' do learn 'ow do zay y' name," he told Virgil, who chuckled.

Gordon was exhausted by the time they got him back into the sling and out of the pool, but despite that he couldn't keep the beaming smile off his face. "Wanna ring Gwanma, 'n Scod, 'n John, 'n Al'n, 'n dell 'em. Dell 'em I walged." He rested his head back against the wheelchair's headrest.

"We'll get you dried off and back to your room first," Catherine told him.

"Den I'm ringin'."

"Then you're ringing," she agreed as she handed Jeff and Virgil dry towels and robes. "Thank you," she whispered. "You've worked miracles."

"You won't keep him down now," Jeff admitted. He nudged Virgil. "Come on. We need to get changed. I've been in the water for so long I feel like a prune." As they walked past the wheelchair he patted his younger boy on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Son."

Virgil didn't say anything until he followed his father back to the unit next to Gordon's room. "He was terrified, wasn't he? Terrified of going into the water. I've never seen anyone so scared."

Jeff stopped towelling down his back. "It looked like it."

"He's never said anything to me, but has he ever spoken to any of you guys about his accident?" Virgil rubbed down one of his legs. "I've always assumed that he was unconscious all the way through, but what if he was aware of what was going on when he was under water? What if he knew he was trapped and was probably going to drown?"

"We've never talked about it," Jeff admitted. "And I've never been allowed to be present during his counselling sessions, so I don't know what he's said there. But I've always thought… hoped… that he had no memory of what had happened."

They finished getting dressed in silence and waited until Catherine knocked on the door. "We're ready for you," she announced when Jeff let her in. "You can help Gordon make his phone call while I'm getting changed."

Gordon was in bed. "Wherez th' fone," he demanded. "Godda ring 'em all."

"Keep calm," Jeff advised. "You'll run out of energy and won't be able to say anything. We'll make it a conference call and you can tell them all at once… How are you getting on, Virgil?"

"I've got Scott, John and Grandma," Virgil said. "They're prising Alan out of his race car as we… Hiya, Alan. Got someone here with something to tell you. Hang on…" He wheeled the videophone around so that Gordon could see the four faces on screen.

"Hi, Gordon," Alan acknowledged. "What's your big news?"

"I wg'd," Gordon beamed. "I wg'd tree shdepz ou' 'n dree shdep bag. Dad le', Brvchl l'. Did le'. Bvrch l'."

His big announcement was met with confused silence.

"Uhh… That's great, Gordon," Scott ventured.

But Gordon, having spent the last of his energy giving out his wonderful news, had collapsed against his pillow and fallen asleep.

"Switch the phone through to the unit," Jeff told Virgil, pulling a blanket over his gently snoring son. "We'll tell them in there."

"Okay." It took Virgil a little time to make the connection. "Well done, Gordon," he whispered, and tip-toed into the other room.

"Good, you're here," Jeff greeted him. "I thought I'd wait until you could see their reactions."

"Thanks."

"I didn't understand a word he said," Alan admitted. "Something about trees and sheep dogs?"

"Don't keep us in suspense, Jeff," Grandma scolded. "What is Gordon's big news? What did he say?"

"He said he walked," Jeff stated. "He took three steps out and three steps back. But," and here his smile doubled in size, "what I think is the best news is that he got into the pool to do it."

John's jaw dropped. "You managed to get him into the pool?! Willingly?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Basically by ignoring him. Virgil and I challenged each other to a swimming race…"

Virgil interrupted his father's recitation. "And you cheated."

"I had to give myself an edge somehow."

"By trying to drown me?"

"What are you complaining for? You won!"

"Okay, okay," Scott held up his hand to get the discussion back on track. "So you appealed to Gordon's competitive instincts?"

"At first. Then, like I said, we ignored him. Virgil and I started playing in the water, splashing each other…" Jeff paused. "It was fun. It's been a while since I've played with any of my sons."

"And he got jealous? Alan asked.

"I suppose so. Next thing we knew they were bringing him out over the pool in the sling…" Jeff paused again, longer this time. "Virgil and I have been trying to figure out why he didn't want to go into the pool and… Has Gordon discussed his accident with any of you?"

"No."

"Not that I remember."

"Nope."

"No, Jeff."

"No…" Jeff bit his lip. "I'm trusting you all not to mention this to Gordon unless he says something first, but Virgil and I have formed the theory that he was conscious during his accident and that he was aware that he was drowning."

Grandma's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my!"

"He was frightened of the water. He was shaking like a leaf until we had hold of him and promised that we wouldn't let go. It was only through sheer guts that he was able to take those steps. It's no wonder he feels so proud of himself."

Bewildered, Scott scratched his head. "But if he was so frightened of the water, why didn't he say something when he was having hydrotherapy in the four weeks before his operation?"

"I don't know." Jeff shrugged. "He must have known that there was no way he could have drowned; he had too many people helping and too many buoyancy aids on him to do that. Maybe because he was feeling so helpless and that he had no control over his destiny, he simply gave up?"

Virgil was silent as his father outlined his theory. Four weeks before his operation was when Gordon had asked him to help him commit suicide and Virgil knew for a fact that at that point Gordon had given up…

Totally given up.

On screen Alan turned his head slightly and then looked back. "I've got to go. Tell Gordon I think it's fantastic and that the first thing I want him to do when I get there on Friday is give me a demonstration."

Jeff smiled at him. "I will do. Maybe he'll be able to walk onto the track and see your final race?"

Alan's face lit up. "Boy that would be awesome! I'd be guaranteed to win if he did that."

They finished the videophone call and then the two Tracys went to lunch. Gordon was awake again and was waiting on his midday meal when they arrived back at his room. "I fell azleep before I god their reaction," he admitted. "Whad did they zay?"

"They were thrilled," Jeff told him. "They're all proud of you and Alan wants you to show him yourself as soon as he gets here on Friday.

"I will!" Gordon's eyes were shining. "I'll dake dwendy zdepz! Fifdy!" He relaxed his head back on his pillow. "Thankz for your help, Dad.,, Thank you doo, Brrchll." He frowned and tried again. "Brr…" He stopped. "Vrr… I'm gonna do thiz… V… Vir… God thad bid… Vir-ch… Zdupid mouth." He hit his bed in frustration.

"Just try saying 'Virg'," Virgil suggested.

"No, thad's nod your name."

"Try telling Scott that."

"Break it down into bits," their father told him. "Vi… ir… gi… il."

"'Kay… Vi… ir… gi… Vi… ir… gi… il."

"Now bring them together," Jeff prompted. "Vir…"

"Vir-gi-il… Vir-gi-il… Vir-gil… Vir-gil! Yez!" Gordon crowed. "Thad'z dwo thingz in one day! Thank you, Vir-gil!" He looked his brother in the eye. "Thank you for everything."

Virgil grasped his grinning brother's hand. "You're more than welcome. Any time, any thing… within reason."

Gordon winked, his weaker eye not quite spoiling the effect. "Gotcha."

Jeff cleared his throat. "Now that we're over the worst of it and you're getting better, Gordon… Are you two going to tell me just what went on between you?"

Virgil's answer would have been no, but he decided that the decision should be Gordon's. Fortunately Gordon had come to the same conclusion. "No. All thad's in the pazd and I'm looking forward do the fudure."

Virgil nodded. "Gordon's right. And if it makes you feel any better, I have absolutely no intention of ever telling Scott either."

Jeff gave a wry grin. "I know it's stupid, but that does make me feel better."

"Besidez," there was more than a hint of Gordon's old impish grin, "id was juzd the product of a deranged mind..." He looked at Virgil. "You really should do zomething about thad."

"Hey!" Virgil grabbed a pillow off the bottom of the bed and hit his brother across the chest with it. Gordon grabbed the pillow and hit him back.

And Jeff laughed. A deep belly laugh that seemed to be an echo of the past, so long had it been since Virgil heard it.

Gordon hit his father with the pillow. Jeff deflected the blow, grabbed the pillow from his son's hands and, not wanting to take advantage of Gordon's weakened state, hit Virgil. Gordon pulled a pillow from behind his head and resumed his attack on his brother.

"Hey!" Virgil put up his hands to defend himself. "That's not fair. I'm unarmed here!"

Someone cleared their throat and the three men stopped playing and looked at each other sheepishly. A nurse, carrying Gordon's lunch, was standing at the door, looking on in horror at what she perceived as wanton destruction.

"Ah… Sorry, Nurse," Jeff said. "We were just, ah, helping Gordon get some exercise." He put his pillow behind Gordon's head and made a show of getting it into position. "Comfortable, Son?"

Gordon's reply was equally prim and proper. "Yes. Thank you, Father."

Her lips thin in disapproval, the nurse placed Gordon's meal on his tray. "I trust that you will be as 'helpful' in feeding your son, Mr Tracy."

Jeff Tracy was behaving like a schoolboy who'd been caught scribbling on one of the desks. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Good." She gave him a look that told him that he was under notice to behave and then departed the room. As soon as she'd gone the three men looked at each other and then collapsed into fits of laughter. Gordon threw his spare pillow at Virgil who caught it and placed it back at the foot of the bed.

Jeff picked up Gordon's spoon, dipped it into the soup, and then with a mischievous gleam in his eye, looked at Gordon. "You heard the nurse. Now open up like a good boy. Here comes the choo-choo…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Late that afternoon, Jeff walked with Virgil out to the airfield. "Thank you for coming today. I don't know that we would have got as far as we did without you."

"Not a problem," Virgil responded. "I could stay tomorrow if you wanted."

"No, I think we'll be okay. Grandma's bringing Rick and Diane back tomorrow and they're bringing their swimming gear. Diane being a nurse will mean she'll be able to help with his therapy in the pool and Rick'll just keep him from stressing over being in the water. Alan's visiting on Friday and then you'll be back for the weekend. Scott and John will take over from me on Monday and Tuesday." Jeff gave a rueful chuckle. "I've got to start earning my keep again."

Virgil gave him a concerned look. "Is everything okay financially?"

"I've taken a bit of a hit," Jeff admitted. "The markets don't take too kindly to corporate leaders taking time out to care for their invalid sons, but that doesn't mean we're all going to be tossed out onto the street any time soon. I might have to dip into one or two investments to make sure that the 'organisation' keeps going, but we'll be okay. And…" he paused meaningfully, "even if it had ruined me, nothing would have stopped me from giving Gordon every chance."

"I know," Virgil admitted. "And it's all been worth it." He thought for a moment. "Father…"

"Yes, Virgil."

"I know that we're behind schedule, but, what with one thing and another, I've taken a lot of time off work this year and I don't think that I've given ACE one hundred percent. I know I was due to finish at the Christmas break, but do you think I could carry on until the end of January? I know that means that the 'organisation' will be even further behind and you'll be one man short for that month, but I feel I owe it to Uncle Hamish and Greg."

"Are you sure about this? You've always been so keen on building the machines and getting the organisation operational. We're not really going to be able to make a start on them until you're there."

"I realise that, and if you'd rather I stuck to our timetable then I will. But Uncle Hamish and Greg have been good to me and I think it's the least I could do."

Jeff stopped and thought. "It might not be a bad idea. Maybe we should all take some time out, live 'normal' lives, give Gordon a chance to regain full fitness, before we commit ourselves to our plans. Yes…" He started walking again, still musing out loud. "Yes, that's what we'll do. December's our month off. I'll tell Scott and John that once they've finished all the necessaries they're to have a break… Brains too. He's been working too hard, alone, and for too long… And, if nothing else it'll give me another month to try and convince your grandmother to join us."

Virgil chuckled. "Do you honestly think that you'll be able to change _her_ mind? In only one month??"

"Probably not, but you can't blame a man for trying." They were at Virgil's aeroplane and the hangar was empty apart from the two Tracys. "We did good today. I feel like we've achieved something momentous."

"I'm just happy that Gordon can say my name again."

Jeff looked around. "Virgil… I know I'm not the most demonstrative father, that's not something I particularly proud of, but I've appreciated your support over these last three-and-a-half months, and I know Gordon has too… Whatever it was that happened between the pair of you…"

Virgil held up his hands. "Don't ask because I'm not telling."

"Fair enough. Anyway I just wanted to say thank you and…" Jeff looked uncomfortable as he scanned the hangar to see if anyone was watching. "And I wanted you to know that I'm proud of you too…"

"I know you are," Virgil interrupted. "We all do. You don't have to say it."

"But… I… Ah…" Jeff looked even more ill at ease. "Come 'ere," he said gruffly, and wrapped his surprised son up in a rough hug. "I appreciate what you're doing, I'm proud of all you've done, I appreciate that you're giving up a lot for me, and I'm thankful that you're my son. And… Well… I love you." He released Virgil and took a step back unable to meet his eyes. "That's what I wanted to say." He shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked at a spot on the ground.

"Uh… Thanks…" Virgil said. "But you didn't have to."

"Yes, I did. I nearly lost Gordon twice without him knowing and with what you boys are going to be doing in the organisation…"

"We know and Gordon always knew. It's not necessary to put into words; your actions have always spoken loud enough." Virgil put his hand on the door of his aeroplane, but didn't open it. "Look… Dad…" Jeff glanced up. "It's not only a one-way street. We all… That is… I… and my brothers... your sons… We all think you're pretty special too. But that's not the only reason why we're 'giving up' a lot. It's because we believe in what you're doing and we want to be part of it." He smiled. "And if our only reward is one of those hugs, then it'll be worth it."

Jeff stood back. "I'd better let you go."

Virgil patted him on the arm. "I'll see you Friday evening. Tell Gordon I'll be expecting him to be able to walk one hundred steps and say my name as two syllables instead of two words."

Jeff chuckled. "I'll tell him. Give my best to Hamish and my apologies to Greg."

"Will do." Virgil climbed into his aeroplane, but as he was about to shut the door he stopped. "Hey, Father…"

Jeff craned his neck to look up at his son. "What?"

"I love you too." Virgil pulled the door shut and settled into the pilot seat before taxiing out to the runway, aware of the warm glow that suffused his body.

His last view of Jeff Tracy was of the man standing at the door to the hangar, a broad grin plastered over his face.

_To be continued…_


	23. A Quiet Return

**23: A Quiet Return**

It was only two days later and Virgil was back at the Willis Institute. "Hiya, Alan," he greeted his kid brother as he stepped out of his aeroplane. "How's Gordon?"

"Sleeping. He's tired himself out."

"How many steps can he do now?"

Alan grinned at his brother. "Sixty five in the water… Seventy three if you count the ones on land."

"Catherine's got him walking on land? That's great!"

"They put him in a kind of harness between parallel bars so that all the weight's not on his arms and legs. He did one length today and was absolutely exhausted, but he swears he's going to do three tomorrow."

"Knowing Gordon, he will do." Virgil locked down his aeroplane. "How are you? On track for the big race?"

"Yeah. The car's running sweet, I'm running sweet. If I can keep up this form, and nothing goes wrong mechanically, I've got a good chance of winning the championship."

"Well don't forget to book us the best seats so we get a good view of you getting that final chequered flag."

"Already done… How's work?" Alan asked as the two men started travelling along the travelator.

"Busy. We're in the run-down towards Christmas and all our customers are demanding that we get their jobs done this year. I don't know why Uncle Hamish doesn't go crazy during the silly season."

"Are you serious about staying on until the end of January?"

"I'd feel guilty if I didn't," Virgil admitted. "And this way," he winked, "you guys will have all the hard, boring jobs finished by the time I get to Tracy Island."

"Ah. I knew there was method in your madness."

The pair of them tiptoed into Gordon's room. Their brother lay on his bed, wearing street clothes, snoring gently.

Virgil placed a hand on his father's shoulder. "Hi," he whispered. "Alan says Gordon's doing well."

"He is," Jeff agreed, his voice equally quiet. "At this rate he'll be jogging around the island by Christmas."

"Don' you know id'z rude to whizper in public," a sleepy voice said.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," Alan laughed.

Virgil watched as Gordon pulled himself into a sitting position. "I hear you're up to sixty-five steps in the water. Think you'll be able to do one hundred for me tomorrow?"

"No sweat," Gordon responded. "Did you also hear that I can now say my Ss and Ts?"

"No," Virgil replied, impressed.

"Until he gets tired," Jeff amended. "That's a giveaway."

Gordon screwed up his nose. "Then I'll have to practise saying sentences without those letters."

"Better to practise saying them."

Gordon's grin widened and he began to quote:

"_She sells sea shells on the sea shore._

_Till a crab tasted her toe and made it very sore._

_Two tough jack tars took her on the town,_

_One offered to take her dress up, when the other took it down."_

"Gordon!" Jeff complained. "If your grandmother could hear you…"

"She can, and it's no worse than what you and your Air Force buddies used to sing, Jefferson."

Virgil grinned at his father's discomfort. "Hi, Grandma."

"Hello, Honey. Did you have a good flight?"

"Nothing exciting, which I guess is a good thing."

The family settled down to a quiet evening's conversation, enjoying the fact that they were all able to understand Gordon, although Virgil did note that as the evening wore on his sentences were becoming more and more slurred.

Another thing that he noticed was that Gordon was continuously working out. He was flexing his limbs, squeezing (thankfully silent) rubber balls, practicing his writing and drawing (using some of Virgil's pictures), or getting his family to help by adding resistance to his exercises.

Gordon was determined to get back to full fitness and to do it soon.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

It was a view that was reinforced the following day when Virgil followed Gordon and Catherine into the hospital's gym. Virgil had been given the important task of wheeling his brother's wheelchair about, while Gordon worked on building up his muscles.

Catherine assisted Gordon into his harness so that he could be supported between the parallel bars. "We're doing this, Virgil," she explained, "because Gordon has lost a lot of bone density in the time that he was unable to stand. Because of his ongoing physio, his muscles might be strong enough to support him, but his bones are fragile. If he were to try standing unaided he would risk a break now or arthritis in the future."

"How long before he'll be able to support his own weight?" Virgil asked.

"It's usually three to four weeks after the patient is first able to stand again. That's why we've been doing a lot of working out in the pool. In there Gordon is able to stand upright, thereby increasing his bone density, but the water supports him just like this harness."

Gordon pointed at a folder. "Show Virgil the scans."

Catherine picked up the folder and pulled out two pieces of paper. "These are the results from Gordon's latest tests..." Virgil looked at where she was pointing and realised that he was looking at a multicoloured representation of a hip joint. "The various colours represent the density of the bone," Catherine explained. "A healthy young man, like you, would have his 'bone' coloured pale yellow. As you can see, this week Gordon's principle colour is purple bleeding into orange, which is an improvement on last week when it was all dark purple. I'll let him stand without help when his bone density is registering as solid orange... Comfortable?" she asked Gordon.

He wriggled in his harness. "Yep."

Virgil watched as, each foot pressed precisely into place; Gordon walked the length of the parallel bars and then turned for the return journey.

When he'd finished his designated task he was congratulated by Catherine. "Well done, Gordon… Will you bring his chair over, please, Virgil?"

"No!" Gordon refused. "I c'n do more."

"You don't want to overdo it," she cautioned. "You know the risks."

"One more," Gordon insisted.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Very well," Catherine assisted Gordon to turn until he was facing the other way. Then she gestured to Virgil to follow closely behind with the chair, ready to catch the invalid if he grew too tired to continue.

The further along the bars he progressed, the more obvious it became to his observers that Gordon was fighting to reach his goal. His face was creased in a frown of deep concentration as he struggled to lift one leg up, move it forward, and then place it down again. Then there was a pause as he shifted his weight over, before taking a deep breath and repeating the whole process with the other leg. Each step he took was more laboured than the last, but still Gordon refused to give in.

As Virgil watched his brother creep forward, body shaking with the effort, he wondered why they'd ever had concerns about Gordon's attitude. He might have been a prankster, and an irritating one at that, but when it mattered he would always give 110 percent. Nothing and nobody would hold him back.

At last Gordon reached the end of his quest. Grinning broadly he let himself be lowered back down into the wheelchair. "Shaid I could do id."

"Yes, you did," Catherine agreed. "At this rate it won't be long and you'll be walking out that door."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

The following day, Sunday, Virgil returned from his early run to find Gordon's room empty. He retreated to the nurses' station. "I seem to have lost him."

Ange, an attractive nurse who smiled a lot, giggled. "We often seem to do that. Now that he can get himself into an electric wheelchair he goes AWOL. Try the children's ward in the other wing."

"Thanks." Virgil retraced his steps through the Willis Institute until he came to a section he'd never entered before. Following the signs he found himself in a hallway decorated with paintings and drawings by children of all ages. The nurses' station was deserted so he softly walked down the hallway, listening out for his brother's familiar voice.

What he did hear was the violent sounds of someone being sick, followed by a familiar voice shouting "Nurse…! Anyone…! Help!"

Glancing into the room from where the voice appeared to come, Virgil found his brother, somehow perched on the side of a bed, supporting a young boy who was depositing what little remained of his stomach contents onto the bedspread. "Gordon!"

Gordon looked up, lines of worry scarring his face. "Virg! Get some help!"

Rather than dashing the length of the hall trying to find someone in uniform, Virgil jogged around the bed and pushed the buzzer that would hopefully bring someone running. Then, grabbing a suitable receptacle, he held it for the boy to use, noticing how gaunt the child's face was and how what little of his hair remained stuck out in untidy tufts. The boy looked to be no more than six years old and he was clearly very, very sick.

"It's going to be okay now, Robbie," Gordon soothed and slid, grunting with the effort, off the bed and back into his wheelchair. "Virgil's my big brother. He'll help."

"What happened?" Virgil asked, pushing the buzzer again and praying that someone would make an appearance soon.

"I'd popped down here to visit Robbie..." Gordon smiled. "He and I often hang out together, right, Pal?" and made no complaint as the boy managed a weak smile, nodded, and then proceeded to throw up into his friend's lap. "We, that's his parents and us two, were sitting together chatting when he started vomiting... His parents have gone to find his doctor…" He cast a frantic look over his shoulder, willing someone in authority to arrive. "Where are they?!"

Virgil pushed the non-responsive button again. "I'll take care of Robbie," he suggested. "You go and see if you can find help."

"Okay," Gordon nodded and laid a caring hand on the little boy's arm. "Virgil will look after you. He's always looked after me." He pushed the 'chair's directional lever to one side and had just completed a 180 degree turn when a nurse hurried in.

She took one look at the young patient and then spoke into her personal radio. "Doctor Valt, please report to room one-oh-three, stat." She took over from Virgil. "Thank you, ah..." She glanced at him. "Are you friend of Robbie's?"

"No. I'm Gordon's brother. I was looking for him."

"Thank you for your help…" She gave the Tracys a grateful smile as other medical staff rushed into the room. "Perhaps you'd better go back to your room now, Gordon?"

Gordon, his eyes on his distressed young friend, nodded, but otherwise didn't move.

"Come on," Virgil said and disengaged the wheelchair's motor. "We're only in the way here." As he pulled the 'chair away from the side of the bed, his eye was caught by something shiny hanging on the wall.

"Just a minute," one of the other medical staff handed Virgil a towel. "You might want to cover the mess on your brother."

"Thanks." Virgil pushed the wheelchair past a harassed looking couple who appeared to be trying to observe all that was happening while keeping clear of the activity by the bed and out into the corridor. Once in the hall he stopped to drape the towel over Gordon's lap. "What's the story?"

"Brain tumour." Gordon was clearly downcast as Virgil started to push him back to his room. "Robbie's a great kid. You never hear him complain despite all he's gone through. His parents, we passed them on the way out, have had to practically sell everything they had to get him this treatment… But it doesn't seem to be doing him any good."

They left the brightly coloured pictures behind and entered the more sombre walls that marked the adults' wards. "What are his chances?" Virgil asked.

"I don't know. They don't want to worry a poor, helpless, invalid like me." Gordon's voice was bitter. "But I don't think they're good… And I think Robbie knows it."

Virgil pushed the 'chair around a corner. "Is the vomiting as a result of the tumour or the medication?"

"I don't know what happened in there. He seemed fine. The four of us were having a laugh together and all of a sudden he becomes ill. We couldn't raise anyone on the buzzer so his parents went to find help. I couldn't do anything. I'm just a helpless cripple."

"For 'a helpless cripple' you did pretty good back there," Virgil corrected as they entered Gordon's room. "You helped Robbie."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You held him upright so he wouldn't choke."

"But I couldn't reach the buzzer to keep trying it, and no one could hear me yelling; I couldn't _get_ help."

"You got my attention." Virgil gave his brother a comforting pat on the shoulder. "Maybe you're not as mobile as you'd like, but you soon will be. You've got to be patient."

"I'm sick of being patient. I'm sick of being _A_ patient! I want to get out of this place! I want to be able to do something useful!"

"You did something useful. Just being there to support him helped Robbie. He wasn't alone… Now do you want a hand to get washed and changed?"

Gordon didn't move. "But what if we were too late getting help because I couldn't do enough?"

"Gordon… You, and his parents, did the best you could…" Virgil pulled up a chair and sat down, facing his brother. "If you're going to be a part of… the team… you're going to have to remember that that's all we can do, and that sometimes our best won't be good enough. We're not going to be able to help everyone. It's an unpalatable fact, but it's still a fact."

Gordon pouted. "Well, it's a fact I don't like. He's just a kid, Virg. He's only nine! He shouldn't have to go through something as traumatic as a brain tumour"

"Look at where he is," Virgil reminded his depressed brother. "He's being cared for by the Willis Institute. He's getting the best treatment he possibly can. Just like you did."

"But he didn't do anything to warrant being in the Willis. He didn't do something stupid like crashing a speedboat. It's his own body attacking him and it's just not fair!"

"No, it's not," Virgil agreed. "But life isn't always fair. Now, do you want to get cleaned up?"

Nurse Ange bustled into the room. "I thought I saw you two come back."

"Gordon was helping one of the children and got his clothes dirty," Virgil explained. "He needs to get changed."

"What have you been doing this time?" the nurse chided her patient affectionately. "What kind of mess?"

"Robbie was sick on me."

"Ah…" Ange became serious. "How is he?"

Gordon shook his head. An eloquent gesture that spoke volumes of both his and Robbie's wellbeing.

"Let's have a look," Ange lifted the towel. "Okay, Gordon, we'll get you a shower and into some clean clothes."

"Can I help with anything?" Virgil asked.

"I think we'll be fine," she responded. "We won't be long."

She was as good as her word.

Gordon had perked up by the time he returned to his room. "Thanks for your help, Ange."

She smiled at him. "All part of the service. Do you want to get back on your bed?"

Gordon shrugged. "May as well. I'm not planning on heading out on any hot dates today." He flashed her a cheeky grin. "That's unless you want go out with me?"

Ange laughed. "I don't think my boyfriend would approve... How many steps are you going to take this afternoon?"

"At least one hundred in the pool."

"Only one hundred?"

Gordon grinned. "Give me a number, Ange, and I'll walk it... Just for you."

Ange giggled. "Sweet talker." She reached up to adjust a piece of equipment and the top button of her blouse popped off, rolling away to disappear under the bed. As she worked away, she was the only one who didn't notice its disappearance.

Virgil wondered if he should say something. He nearly did when Ange lent over Gordon to help pump up his pillows, her blouse hanging open in his brother's face.

Once upon a time, (was it really only four months ago?) being this close to a partially exposed and buxom woman would have elicited at a long hard stare and a lewd comment from his brother, but, much to Virgil's surprise, Gordon chastely looked away and said nothing.

"There, I think that's everything," Ange said, happily. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Gordon?"

"Uh... No, thanks."

"I'll be on my way then." She favoured her patient with another of her broad smiles, and turned to leave, a lacy undergarment exposed for all to see.

"Ah... Ange..." Virgil had decided that he couldn't leave her parading around the institute in that state. "I think you've lost a button." He dove under the bed and retrieved it, hoping that he wasn't too red in the face as he held it out, looking somewhere over her left shoulder.

"I have...? Are you sure...? Where...?" Ange checked her cuffs and the blouse's material bulged out further. "Not there… Oh...!" Finding the threads that marked the errant button's home, she blushed and pulled her top shut. "Thank you, Virgil," she gabbled, grabbing the button from his hand and trying to hide her embarrassment. "You'd think that a prestigious institute like the Willis could afford to clothe their staff in uniforms that were of better quality... I'd better go and sew this on before I'm caught out again... Mr Millington would not be impressed... What must you think of me, Gordon? Thank heavens you're such a gentleman." Mortified, the nurse hurried out the door, button clasped firmly in one hand as the other held her blouse pressed securely closed against her ample chest.

Virgil turned back to Gordon, who offered up a wry smile. "That's something you don't get to see every day."

Virgil frowned. "What?"

"A flustered nurse."

Virgil chuckled, before returning the frown to his face. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes." Gordon looked surprised. "Why?"

"You didn't... um... say anything... to Ange."

"What could I say? I thought it would be better to pretend not to notice; less embarrassing for her."

"But I thought _you_ would have made some comment."

Gordon looked genuinely confused. "Like what?"

"Like... I don't know," Virgil admitted. "Something about getting an eyeful or something."

"Oh... No. I didn't think that. I just felt embarrassed for the poor woman."

"Really?" Virgil knew his face was all smiles. It looked as though the pre-Olympic champion's personality had reinstated himself.

"Yes... Wha... Hey!" Gordon's sentence was cut short when Virgil, overcome with an intense burst of what could only be called brotherly love, wrapped him up in a bear hug. "Quit being so mushy!" But, despite his protests, Gordon returned his brother's affections with a warm embrace of his own. "What was that for?" he asked when Virgil finally felt he could let go.

"I'm just so happy to have you back."

"Ah," Gordon appeared to understand. Then he frowned. "Back from where? I've only been as far as the children's ward."

"I don't mean physically. I mean... ah," Virgil tried to think of a suitable explanation, "...You."

"Me?"

"Yes," Virgil nodded, becoming flustered after his uncharacteristic gesture of affection and aware that he wasn't making much sense. "I mean that... and don't take this wrong, I think it's great that you got your medal, I'm really proud of you, we all are, but... after you won it..." he bit his lip, "...you changed."

"Changed?"

"Became more..." Virgil felt he was digging a hole for himself and decided to stop before the hole became too deep. "Never mind. Forget it." He slumped back in his chair.

"Changed..." Gordon ran his fingers along the edge of the sheet and thought. "Yeah... Well... I guess I did. I was a jerk, wasn't I?"

Surprised by this sudden burst of brutal honesty, Virgil attempted to backtrack. "Maybe not... ah... Not a jerk... Not all the time... Maybe..."

Gordon interrupted what was becoming a staccato monologue. "It's okay, Virgil. I know it's the truth."

"Why?"

Gordon shrugged. "I guess I thought that was the way everyone expected me to behave. After a while I began to believe in my own propaganda."

"So it was our fault? We didn't mean to change you, but we were so proud of you..."

Gordon interrupted again. "No, it wasn't only you guys. It was the press. It was the rest of the town. It was me... Suddenly I was a big deal; not only one of Jeff Tracy's sons. I was recognised for being me; for what I'd done..."

Virgil began to experience a feeling of déjà vu.

"...People asked me for my autograph, to have their photo taken with me as if I'd done something amazing. They acted as if just being close to me was a big deal. As if just by shaking my hand would bring them good fortune. It went to my head... and I guess it took a good, hard knock to shake it out again."

"But you didn't behave like that everywhere, did you? When we were talking to your WASP friends they didn't think you were arrogant. They had nothing but praise for you, especially for that year you were in charge of the bathyscaphe."

Gordon gave a shrug. "You've never been in the services so you won't know, but it didn't take me long to find out that although I might have been a big fish at home, I was only small fry at WASP. I had to work to gain everyone's respect. While we were in the bathyscaphe, we were a long way from home in what could have become a stressful situation. I had to do what I could to make life easy for everyone."

"You succeeded." Virgil admitted. "Those guys would have walked over hot coals for you. After your accident they were blaming themselves that they couldn't do more to help."

"They did enough. I'm still here and I'm on the mend." Gordon looked thoughtful. "Was that why you guys didn't want me to be part of the team? Because I behaved like a jerk?"

Virgil gave a reluctant nod, before quickly changing the subject. "Was that your replica medal that I saw on Robbie's wall?"

"Yeah. He thought it was the real thing and I said he could look after it for me... That kid deserved it. He's put more effort into simply living than I ever did training to win a race..." There was a quiet tap on the door. "Come in."

The door slid open revealing the harassed couple that Virgil had seen briefly when they'd left Robbie's room. Only now they weren't looking harassed. They were looking bereft.

Gordon sat up. "Mr and Mrs Tompkinson!? Come in."

Mr Tompkinson put his hand in the small of his wife's back and gently pushed her forward. She took a reluctant step into the room and then stopped. Her eyes were red.

"What's wrong? Is it Robbie?" Virgil could see alarm in Gordon's face.

Mr Tompkinson, still guiding his wife forward, nodded. "Yes... I'm sorry, Gordon, but he..." He was interrupted by a wail from Mrs Tompkinson.

Virgil got up and carried his chair around to the other side of the bed. "Here, sit down... Would you like me to leave?"

"No. We can't stay for long," Mrs Tompkinson gave a sniff and laid her hand on his arm. "Thank you for the help you gave, Robbie." She tried to smile through her tears. "I never caught your name."

"Virgil."

"Thank you, Virgil," Mr Tompkinson said. He turned back towards the bed and Virgil retreated to a corner so that he wasn't intruding, but was still available if needed. "We..." the older man swallowed. "We wanted to tell you ourselves, Gordon. You brightened Robbie's final week. He couldn't believe that he had actually met someone famous and that you'd given him your medal for safe keeping. You made him feel special."

"He was special," Gordon replied. "He was a good friend. He gave me a lot too. It wasn't only a one way street."

"And we had to return this." Mrs Tompkinson removed a tissue from her bag and unwrapped it. "We didn't want to take the chance that it would go missing." She held the tissue out to Gordon.

He looked at the 24-carat, diamond encrusted medallion nestled in the white paper. "You keep it."

"No!" She exclaimed. "We couldn't! It's too valuable."

"It meant more to Robbie than it ever did to me," Gordon explained. "I was just saying to Virgil that if anyone deserved a medal it was that kid. Please keep it. If you need to sell it to help cover costs then do so. Melt it down if necessary. I haven't got any emotional or monetary attachments to it. Think of it as my final gift to Robbie, and as a gift from him to you, to say thanks for being such great parents."

Mrs Tompkinson, her outstretched hand still holding the medallion, stared at him. Then, a fresh wave of tears cascading down her cheeks, she pulled the medallion in close and cradled it to her chest. "Thank you."

Mr Tompkinson, only just managing to keep his emotions in check, held out his hand. "Thank you, Son," he said. "We'll never forget this and we'll never forget you."

"I'll hold you to that." Gordon managed a smile. "Keep in touch. You've got my email address?"

"Yes..." Mr Tompkinson put his arm around his wife. "Come on, Bridget. We've still got a lot to do."

She nodded. "Goodbye, Gordon."

"Bye," he responded and watched as the pair of them shuffled out the door. Then he flopped back against his pillow; his hand to his face.

Virgil cleared his throat. "Ah... Would you like to use your underwater virtual reality gizmo?" he asked, thinking that his brother would appreciate being hidden from the world.

"No." Gordon slid down his bed. "I'm tired. I want to sleep." He pulled his blankets over his head.

"Would you like me to draw the curtains?"

There was a muffled, "yes."

"Okay." Virgil did so. "I'll head over to The Satellite. If you want me, give me a call." There was no response so he headed for the door.

"When's Dad coming back?"

Virgil turned back to the pile of sheets. "When he's finished what he's got to do. He said it would be sometime this afternoon."

Gordon was silent and Virgil crept out of the room, closing the door behind him. After telling the nurses on duty what had happened, he headed for the lift. Its doors opened just as he was reaching for the button. "You're early."

Jeff Tracy stepped out. "Are you going somewhere?"

"One of the kids Gordon visited in the children's ward has just died. He wanted some time alone so I'm heading back over to The Satellite."

"Was it Robbie Tompkinson?"

Surprised, Virgil nodded. "Yes. How'd you know?"

"They didn't want to worry Gordon, but thought I should be aware that the prognosis wasn't good in case the worst happened. How's he taken it?"

"He's buried himself under the sheets. I offered to get out his virtual reality gizmo, but he didn't want to use it."

"I've noticed that the only time he does use it is when John and Scott are here. And then it's almost as if he does so that he doesn't hurt their feelings…" Jeff sighed. "I'll go and see if he needs anything. If I don't see you over at the house shortly, I'll let you know when it's okay to come back…"

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Saturday morning one week later, and Virgil was back at the Willis Institute. He sat in the semi-circle with his father, Alan and Grandma around Gordon's bed and listened to his brother rant.

"I'm bored! I'm sick of this place! It's been two and a half weeks since I had the operation but I still haven't been outside the Willis. I'm going to go crazy if I don't get out of here soon!" Gordon thumped his bed. "Every day it's the same routine. Bed, pool, gym, bed, gym, pool, bed. Exercises and more exercises. I need something different. I can get exercise beyond the gate. I could go to the park! I could go for a walk! I could have some decent food at a cafe! Dad!" he appealed. "I'm bored! Get – me – out – of – here!"

Jeff Tracy had been sitting there placidly, listening to the monologue. "Okay."

"I knew you'd say that! I knew you'd side with..." His father's solitary word sunk into Gordon's brain. "Huh?"

"I said 'okay'."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, Gordon," Alan smirked. "He said okay. It means yes, all right, of course, no problem..."

"I know what it means." Curious, Gordon looked back at his father. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you have your heart set on spending some time away from the Willis Institute then you can spend some time away from the Willis Institute."

Gordon appeared to be having difficulty comprehending what is father had said. "I can?"

"Yes, Gordon, you can. When do you want to leave? Now?"

"Now?" Gordon's face morphed from bemused surprise to a grin of delight and expectation. "Now!" He clambered down his bed until he was level with his father. "You mean it? I can leave now? Walk out that door?" He pointed. "And no one will stop us?"

"Well, you can be wheeled in your 'chair out that door. That's unless you don't want to..."

"Don't want to! Dad, let's get out of here!" Gordon made to get out of the bed.

"Whoa!" Jeff placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "Not too fast."

"First things first, Young Man," Grandma said. "Don't you think you should get dressed before you go out?" She produced some of Gordon's clothes from out of a drawer and placed them beside her excited grandson.

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "I'm not going anywhere with you if you're going to wear your pyjamas."

"Easily fixed," Gordon pulled his pyjama jacket over his head. "Where can we go?"

"We've got a couple of ideas," Jeff admitted. "You can get changed while we sign you out."

"I'll be ready before the ink's dry."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

One hour later and a buzzing Gordon, in his wheelchair, drove out to the Willis Institute's airstrip. There, waiting patiently, sat the Tracys' aeroplane.

Gordon pulled on Virgil's sleeve. "Where are we going?"

"Guess."

"Guess? I've barely had time to think about it and you want me to guess?!" Gordon eyed up the aeroplane. "Okay... Obviously we're heading out of town."

"Give the guy a prize," Alan sniggered. "Where out of town?"

"You tell me."

"Nope."

Gordon watched as a section of the aeroplane unfolded and lowered itself to the ground. "You've made some alterations."

"It's easier than carrying you in your wheelchair," Jeff admitted as he wheeled his son onto the platform. "Going up."

"Up where too?"

Jeff chuckled.

They assisted Gordon into a window seat and then stored his 'chair in the hold at the back of the aeroplane.

"Do you want your blanket, Gordon, dear?" Grandma asked.

"No, thanks, Grandma. I only needed it outside. Now, will you tell me where are we going?" Gordon begged and showed obvious irritation when everyone laughed and said nothing. "Where are we going, Dad?" he begged.

"There and back," Jeff said as he worked through his pre-flight checks.

Gordon grunted his annoyance. Then he leant forward against the straps of his harness and tapped his brother on the knee. "Virgil, you're a pilot. Give me the bearing of which direction we're heading."

Virgil thought a moment. "Up."

"Up? Is that all you've got for me? Which way!?" He scowled when Virgil pointed skywards. "Horizontally!"

"Oh," Virgil pointed out the aeroplane in the direction of their destination. "That way."

"That way," Gordon grumbled. "That's not a lot of help. How are you going to find rescue zones if you are only going to go _that way_? Give me more!"

"No." Virgil settled back in his seat. "It'll do. You've got to guess where we're going."

Gordon scowled at him. "Alan! Help me!"

"Okay," Alan replied; his face deadpan. "Virgil's right. We're going that way."

Gordon gave him a disgusted look. "You're no help."

"All harnesses done up securely?" Jeff asked. "Everyone ready?" Everyone assured him that they were. "Right. Off we go..."

"Where to?" Gordon called after his father as the latter headed into the cockpit.

Jeff didn't answer.

Unsurprisingly, the take-off was smooth and uneventful. As they flew over land, Gordon spent most of his time staring out the window, drinking in the sights that only a few weeks ago he doubted he'd ever enjoy again and trying to spot something familiar. The rest of the family enjoyed indulging themselves in idle chit-chat, glad of the change in surroundings.

"That's Lake Winbroke!"

Virgil stopped his explanation about how they'd poured the mould for The Mole. "Where?" He pretended to look out the window in the wrong direction.

"There!" Gordon said excitedly. "Over there!"

"Oh, yes," Virgil responded, deliberately keeping his voice low key. "So it is."

"And there's our old high school!" Gordon's nose was pressed flat against the window.

"Scene of many a detention," Alan drawled.

"Yes," Grandma snorted. "Too many, Young Man."

"And the playing fields…! There's Hadley Park… We're losing height! Are we going home?" Gordon finally tore himself away from the view and looked at three smiling faces. "Is that what you've got planned?"

Grandma patted him on the arm. "Just for the day. We thought you'd like a change of scene."

"Like it!?" Gordon glued himself back to the window. "This is great!!"

They were met at the airport by Scott and John, who helped an eager Gordon out of the aeroplane. "Did you have a good flight?"

"Never mind the flight," Gordon took control of his wheelchair. "Let's go home."

"Over here," Scott led the way to a hired mini-bus. He started the motor, pushed a button and the back door swung open allowing the wheelchair access lift to lower itself to the ground. "We thought this would be quicker and more dignified than carrying you in and out of a car."

"I can live with that." Gordon drove himself onto the platform and submitted to his elder brothers ensuring that he was perfectly safe and wasn't about to fall off as the lift made it's upwards journey. "Now where are we going first?" he asked when they'd ensured that his chair was securely fastened to the bus's floor.

"You said you wanted to go home, so let's go home," Scott suggested. He climbed behind the steering wheel and pulled out of the car park.

It wasn't only the Christmas decorations that lined the streets that made the Tracys feel full of the joy of the season. Scott drove slowly through the town centre, giving the family, and especially Gordon, the chance to lean out the window and greet their friends when they'd stopped at intersections.

"Hi, Mr Hannah!"

"Gordon! It's great to see you!"

"Pat! Thanks for the get well card and your letters."

"Gordon! You're looking well."

"Hello, Miss Isdale."

"Hello, Gordon. Back to give your grandma grief, are you?"

Gordon laughed. "Every opportunity I get... Hi, Billy."

"Gordon! They finally let you out for good behaviour, did they?"

"Shh, don't tell anyone. I smuggled myself out in the laundry."

They turned off the main street and cruised down the side roads, heading towards the part of town that had been such a large part of their lives. Gordon waving to everyone like Santa in the annual Christmas parade.

Scott stopped the mini-bus outside the Tracy family home. "Everyone out."

The first thing that Virgil noticed when they approached the house was that a gently sloping ramp had replaced the front steps. "We've made a few changes," John explained, "to make the place more wheelchair friendly. Things like an elevator so it's possible to get upstairs."

Gordon looked alarmed that such major alterations had been carried out. "But I'm not going to be in this thing for much longer."

"That doesn't matter," Jeff explained. "We may need the facilities in the future."

Grandma put her hands on her hips. "I hope you're not thinking about me when you say that, Jeff."

"Of course not, Mother. They'll be an asset if we ever decide to sell."

"You had better not have forgotten that I'm not moving…"

Virgil followed his brothers inside, leaving the gentle argument behind. They were now in the family lounge and he noticed that the display case that had formerly held Gordon's true Olympic medal had been repaired after Alan's rough attempts to open it. But the case was empty, Gordon's medal being locked away in a drawer back at the Willis, ready to be brought out whenever he needed that extra incentive to push himself.

Gordon took a deep breath, inhaling the old, familiar smells; cooking, perfume, aftershaves, grease, and stink-bombs; memories that told him that he was home. "This feels great…! I'm going to check out my room." He pushed forward on the wheelchair's lever.

"Hold it!" Scott glanced at John. "Do you think that's a good idea, Gordon?"

Gordon frowned. "Why not?"

"Ah… Your room's upstairs."

"So? You said you'd put an elevator in."

"Ah…" Scott repeated. "Yes, we did." He shared a longer look with John.

His younger brother tried another tack. "You know what a mess you always left it in. You won't be able to get in there. And if you do get in, you won't be able to get out."

"It's not a mess!" Gordon said indignantly. "I've barely slept in there the last two years!"

"That doesn't mean it's tidy," John rejoined.

Gordon made an annoyed sound and, ignoring his brothers, pushed on. "Where's this… Ah!" He stopped outside an unfamiliar door where a cupboard had once been housed. He pushed a button and the door slid open revealing a small, but serviceable lift. He drove inside and then swung around so he was facing his brothers. "See you guys up there. Bye, bye." The door slid shut on his grinning face.

"Come on! Let's cut him off!" Scott took off up the stairs, John hot on his heels.

"What have you guys done?" Alan asked, as he ran behind them. "Thrown all his stuff out or something?"

"Not quite," John panted.

"Not quite??"

They were faster than the lift and were waiting, seemingly unfazed, when the door opened. "What kept you?" John asked.

"Boys!" There was a bellow from downstairs.

"Yes, Dad?" Alan shouted down the stairwell.

"Are you all up there?

"Yes, Dad."

"I thought so…" Jeff Tracy started climbing the stairs. "I knew it was either you lot or thunder from an approaching storm. I'm surprised the stairs didn't give out."

"Ah, Gordon wants to check out his room," Scott explained.

"Oh…" Jeff reached the landing. "Well, we'd better wait for your grandmother. She's trying out the new addition to the house."

The lift door opened and Mrs Tracy stepped out. "I wish we'd had that years ago when I had to carry all your laundry up and down those stairs."

"Now that everyone's here, I'm going to check out my room," Gordon announced. This time no one tried to stop him and Virgil gave Scott a querying look and was treated to a shrug in reply.

Gordon slid forward in his chair, grasped the handle to his door, twisted and pushed it open before entering his bedroom.

John closed his eyes. "Wait for the explosion," he muttered.

"My bed! Where's my bed?!" Gordon wheeled himself back to his door and glared at his two eldest brothers. "What have you done with my bed?!?"

"Moved it," Jeff explained. "It's in the boys' house."

"What?" Gordon stared at his father. "The Satellite? Why?"

"Because you're going to be taking over my room," Scott stated.

"I'm what?"

"Mr Millington said that you'll probably be able to move out of the Willis Institute by the end of this week," Jeff explained. "You'll be able to live at the house and attend the Willis as an out-patient. When you don't need to be there daily, you'll be able to move back here and make weekly trips back. Once you don't need regular checkups then you can move with the rest of us to Tracy Island… That's if you want to…"

But Gordon was only focussing a week ahead. "I'm moving out of my room in the Willis?" A broad smile crossed his face. "I'm moving out! Finally!" He punched the air in jubilation. "Freedom!"

"Since The Satellite isn't strictly home, we wanted you to have something that was yours," Scott explained. "That's why we took your bed."

"We've made a few alterations as well," John added. "Scott and I are becoming dab hands at installing ramps."

"I'm sure the locals must think I'm a mean old cheapskate who thinks of his sons only as a cheap source of labour," Jeff grumbled. "I did tell you that I'd pay for any professional services."

"But that wouldn't be nearly so much fun," John responded. "It gave us a chance to do something practical after sitting around all day for so long."

"And it was an opportunity for us to have a little brotherly bonding time," Scott grinned, "before the mean old cheapskate banishes John up into his tin can."

Grandma looked at her watch. "I think it's time for lunch. I hope you boys have stocked the pantry."

John nodded. "We've got everything you asked for, Grandma."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

After lunch the family decided to go for a walk around town. It appeared that everyone, everywhere was celebrating, and not only because of Christmas. It took over an hour for the Tracys to walk one block as it seemed that every second person wanted to stop and exclaim over how well Gordon was looking and say how glad they were that he was getting better. Then the family had to stop off at various establishments in town so that Gordon could thank people in person for the support they'd shown him.

After one of their last stops of the day, the local sweet shop that had been a favourite haunt of the boys when they were children, the Tracys exited back into the brisk winter air. Gordon sucked on a piece of one of his favourite sweets. "This is great."

"I'm not sure you should be eating that," Jeff warned. "Candy's not on the list of foods you're allowed yet."

"It's only a small bit," Gordon tucked the sweet into his cheek. "I'll suck on it slowly."

"Hey, look." Alan pointed across the street. "Isn't that Moron… I mean Marrin and his cronies?"

On the other side of the road a group of long-haired youths slouched against a wall. One of them nudged Marrin and pointed in the direction of the Tracys. Marrin glanced over the road, said something, and then peeled himself off the wall and, with the rest of the group tagging along behind, started walking away.

"I don't believe it. He's ignoring us," Scott fumed. "Hey, Marrin!" he yelled.

The youths kept on walking as if they didn't hear.

"Leave them, Scott," Gordon advised. "It doesn't matter."

"The heck it doesn't matter! They didn't do anything for you when you were sick. The least they can do is say hello when you're getting better… Marrin! ..." There was no response. "Come on, Fellas, all together," Scott commanded. "One… Two… Three…"

"Marrin!!" Their four-part chorus (with Alan shouting Moron for the heck of it) reverberated down the street. People stopped and stared. They all knew the Tracys and they all knew Marrin's group and they wanted to see what was going on.

Embarrassed at being caught out, the youths turned back. "Hey, Scotty," Marrin greeted him. "Didn't see you there." He didn't look at Gordon.

"Yeah, right," Scott growled.

"How have you been, Marrin?" Jeff asked, his voice pleasant, but with the hint of a coiled rattlesnake about to strike.

"Great, Mr T, great. The band's doin' well." Marrin still didn't acknowledge Gordon. "But if you were plannin' on comin' and catchin' us, Virgie," Virgil frowned and Marrin realised his mistake, "I mean, Virgil, we've closed at the Waistland."

"Closed or were kicked out?" Alan asked.

Marrin ignored him, just as he was ignoring Gordon. "Actually, Mr T, you're just the guy we want to see. Y'see our band, _Off the Rails_, is ready to move on to the next level and we need the backin' of a man such as you."

"I thought, Marrin," the rattlesnake's tail was more audible, "that only losers worked for me."

Marrin gave an uneasy laugh. "Now, who would say that? You're a big man around here, Mr T… A important man… And ev'ryone knows how you like helpin' people get started… How about it?" He gave Jeff an overly familiar, supposedly friendly, punch on the shoulder. "Me and the boys are headin' on to bigger and better things, but we just need a little help up."

John had had enough. "You haven't said hello to Gordon yet, Marrin."

Fear appeared in Marrin's eyes as they darted over to the wheelchair bound figure and back to the tall blonde. "Ah… Hiya, Gords," he mumbled, flapping his hand in Gordon's general direction.

Gordon swung his head around and fixed Marrin with an out-of-focus gaze. "Who are you?" he asked.

Everyone stared at him, and even Marrin finally switched his attention to his former friend. "Ah… It's me, Gords… Marrin."

"Moron?"

"No, Marrin… Remember. Me 'n the boys are in the band… Remember?_ Off the Rails._"

"Band?" Gordon frowned. "Rubber band?" he let his head flop forward and a string of saliva drooled out of his mouth.

"Oh, dear." Mrs Tracy reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue, which she used to wipe her grandson's face. "He's started doing that again."

Gordon looked up at her with hopeless adoration. "An angel!"

"No, Gords," Marrin corrected. "_Off the _Rails is a music band. You know? Rock n' Roll? Music?"

"Music." Gordon lifted his head again. "Like angels sing?" A beatific smile flooded his face. "I like angels… They can fly… Like my big brother Scott… He's in the Air Force."

Scott laid a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "No, Gordon. I'm not in the Air Force any more. I resigned, remember?"

Gordon began to sing something that approximated what could have been, at a pinch, with a bit of imagination, a well known Christmas carol. "_Angels I have heard on high… Flying high up in the sky… See them flying oh so high… Before they fall out of the sky…_ Neeeeyahhh…" His hand became a representation of an acrobatic plane, zooming skywards, stalling, and then falling back to earth before heading skywards again. "Neeeyahhh…" he repeated on each upward stroke.

Marrin took a step backwards. "Ah… Maybe we should go." He yelped when Gordon reached out and grabbed him with both hands.

"Have you seen an angel?" Gordon asked, and dribbled again as he looked earnestly up into his ex-friend's face. "I like angels."

Desperate to escape the vice-like grip, Marrin looked about. "Help me, Mr T!"

The rattlesnake struck. "Help you, Marrin? All the great bands have become great because they've had to work hard to reach the top," Jeff informed the frantic young man. "You're going to have to work hard too... without my help." He gave him a condescending pat on the back. "What more could you want from me than to give you the encouragement you deserve?"

"Angels have wings," Gordon stated, as if he hadn't followed the conversation. "And wear white dresses. Have you ever worn a white dress?"

"N-n-no."

"I know lots of angels." Gordon let his head and hands flop again. A drop of saliva fell onto his shirt.

Finally released from Gordon's hold Marrin took two steps backwards and nearly fell over one of his cronies. "Get out of my way!" he snapped. "Ah…" He took another step back. "Guess we'd better go…" Another step. "See you guys around…" He took a fourth backwards step, found the edge of the curb, stumbled, and used his momentum to make a run for it, his pals hot on his heels.

"Bye, Moron," Gordon called after him, before adding, "idiot… Thanks, Grandma..." He accepted the tissue from his grandmother and wiped his mouth. "That's disgusting when you can't feel it," he admitted. "It's even worse when you can. Yuck!" He felt the material of his shirt. "Now I'm all sticky."

"You're a horror, Young Man," Grandma scolded, but there was no anger, only affection, in her voice.

"No, I'm an idiot," Gordon sighed. "I'm the only idiot who's a bigger idiot than that idiot, because I thought that idiot was my friend." He stuffed the tissue into his pocket and slumped down in his 'chair. "Idiot."

No one had a chance to refute him when there was a shout of "Gordon!" from over the road. Looking in the direction of the voice, the Tracys saw Rick Bailey step off the footpath, nearly get bowled by a car, stop, and then when there was a gap in the traffic, jog across to his friend. "Gordon!" He repeated. "It's great to see you here. Why didn't you tell us you were leaving the hospital?"

"I didn't know," Gordon admitted. "This is a surprise to me too."

"How long are you in town for?" Rick asked and Gordon looked up at his father for advice.

"We're heading back this evening," Jeff admitted. "But we're hopeful that Gordon will be moving out of the Willis and into the boys' house by the end of the week. From there it shouldn't be too much longer before he'll be allowed home."

"Fantastic!" Rick beamed. "Look, Diane'll kill me if I don't let her know you're here. She was doing some Christmas shopping and might only be a block or so away... Hang on..." He got out his cell phone and speed dialled a number. "Where are you?" he asked the microphone. "Good. I'm outside Maxy's. Get yourself here as quickly as you can, there's someone here you've got to meet." He hung up the phone. "She's only around the corner and won't be able to resist responding to my little mystery." He gave Gordon a playful punch on the arm. "It sure is great to see you out of hospital, Pal."

Virgil spied a figure rounding the corner, laden with bags of shopping. "There she is."

Diane Bailey took two steps in their direction, saw who her brother was talking to, gave a squeal of delight, dropped her shopping and ran forward, wrapping Gordon up in a big hug. "Oh...! Gordon, it's so great to see you!"

"I'd better go collect her stuff," Rick grumbled and Alan tagged along to give him a hand.

Diane's full attention was on Gordon. "How long are you in town for?"

"Just today," Gordon admitted.

"I'd already asked him that," Rick said, dumping all but one of Diane's bags on the ground. He looked into the carrier. "Anything in here for me?"

"No!" Diane snatched the bag from him before turning her attention back to Gordon. "Why didn't you tell us you were visiting?"

"I've already asked him that too," Rick said.

'You shush," she scolded. "I'm talking to Gordon."

"You can blame us for that, Diane," Jeff offered. "We kept it a secret from Gordon too."

"Does this mean you'll all be home for Christmas?" she asked.

Gordon looked startled as if this was something he hadn't considered. Once again he looked to his father for advice.

"We're hoping that we'll all be able to go to the cabin this Christmas," Jeff explained. "It's what we'd always planned and, assuming nothing unexpected happens, it looks like we're still going to be able to go."

"But when I'm out of this thing," Gordon thumped his wheelchair's armrest before grabbing Diane's hand, "and I'm fully mobile, the three of us will go out somewhere. Just like the old days... Okay?" he added hopefully. "That's if you want to?"

Rick rubbed his hands together in glee. "We'll start planning now. Right, Diane?"

"Right," she agreed. "Just give us the date... And make it soon."

Gordon gave her hand a squeeze and patted Rick on the arm. "Great. I'll look forward to it. You've got no idea how much it'll mean to me."

And Virgil had a feeling that it meant that his brother was back for good.

_To be continued..._


	24. A Quiet Christmas

**24: A Quiet Christmas**

December 23rd.

A raucous sound echoed through the building.

"That," said Bruce Sanders with feeling as he flicked the switch that stilled his machine, "is music to my ears. Angels' harps couldn't sound sweeter." He joined the exodus towards the locker rooms. "I'm so glad I work for someone who knows the importance of the family."

"You mean you're glad to have the week and a half off work between Christmas Eve and Founder's Day," Virgil corrected. "How much time are you actually planning on spending with your folks?"

"Christmas day. Then I'm off to do some skiing. While I think of it, wish your father a happy birthday from me?"

"Sure," Virgil agreed.

"Are you staying for a celebratory drink?"

"I've got time for one. Alan's picking me up in his plane so I won't have to pilot."

"Does that mean you're hitting the hard stuff?" Bruce stripped off his overalls.

Virgil chuckled as he slipped off his boots. "Maybe a beer." He pulled on a jacket. "When are you heading home?"

"Tomorrow. Mum's got it all planned that this year Christmas is going to be run like a military operation. If I'm not at home by twelve hundred hours on Christmas Eve then I'm getting cold toast for Christmas dinner."

The two men exited the locker room and headed down to the canteen, where they met up with Lisa and Butch. The four friends selected their drinks and found themselves a seat.

Virgil poured his beer into a glass. "Are you two going to be spending Christmas with your family?" he asked the Crumps.

"Yeah." Butch nodded. "Mr and Mrs Riley said we could 'ave dinner at their place."

"They took a bit of persuading," Lisa admitted, "but when I pointed out that I nearly didn't make it to Christmas this year they changed their minds... When are you leaving for the cabin?"

Virgil raised his glass. "When I've finished this. I've got to head home and get my stuff before meeting Alan at the airport."

He was as good as his word. He left ACE with Christmas wishes ringing in his ears and Christmas cards in his bag. He arrived home to his undecorated apartment, had a quick shower, dressed in warm, clean clothes, picked up his pre-packed bag, and hailed a taxi for the airport.

He arrived at the same time that Alan touched down. "How are you, Kiddo?"

"I hope I'm not going to get called that all week," Alan complained.

"Face it, Alan. You're the youngest in this family. Even when you're old..."

"Like some I could mention," Alan interjected.

Virgil ignored the interruption, "and grey," he continued, "you're still going to be our kid brother."

Alan grunted, and claimed the pilot's seat. "Did you hear Gordon's got clearance to spend the week with us? But we've got to get him back to the Willis for a check-up when we leave the cabin on Friday."

Virgil was doing up his safety harness. "That's good to hear. It wouldn't be Christmas without everyone there. It was bad enough last year when he was in the bathyscaphe. Have we told him what we've got planned?"

"Nope. He thinks we're cutting short our vacation because of him… It's a pity Tin-Tin and Kyrano won't be joining us."

"Tin-Tin can't seem to find the time to get away from her studies," Virgil commented. "But I think Kyrano's quite excited at the idea catching up with his old friends from Kew Gardens."

"Excited Kyrano style, you mean," Alan grinned. "The most emotional I've ever seen him, was the time I trampled over his prize petunias to get my ball. Even then he just carried on weeding, but he was just about dislocating his shoulder each time he yanked one out."

"Did Lady Penelope manage to convince Brains to leave the island for a few days?" Virgil started scrolling through his music collection, trying to find a suitable song for the trip.

"Yep. She told him that if he didn't join her it would only be her and Parker under the mistletoe," Alan chuckled. "No... She got him away from his work on the island by convincing him that he could work on her place. But I think the Kyranos are joining them Christmas Day too, so it's going to be quite a party, especially if Lady Penelope lets Kyrano cook Christmas dinner."

"I wish Brains would realise that he's practically part of the family," Virgil sighed, still trying to find a decent tune. "It's going to seem strange without him here this year."

"I know Dad tried to convince him to join us, but I think he's worried we'll expect him to do something adventurous when he'd rather have his nose buried in one of his experiments."

"He may have also decided that as this is probably the last Christmas we're all going to have together as a real family, then he didn't want to intrude." Virgil found _Driving home for Christmas._ Finally satisfied, he sat back to enjoy the ride.

The flight was smooth and Virgil found that the closer they got to their destination, the more excited he became. The year before his father had sprung the idea of International Rescue on them all, they'd had Christmas on Tracy Island, and while he'd enjoyed the holiday, he'd discovered that the idea of enjoying the seasonal festivities under a hot, summer sun had a slightly surreal feel to it. The Tracy family cabin, cradled like its rustic predecessors in the solitude of the snow capped mountains, but equipped with all the luxuries expected of a billionaire's home, had always seemed to him to be the ideal place to celebrate Christmastime. And since this was going to be the last time that the whole family was going to be able to enjoy the location together, he aimed to make the most of it.

The pair were the first to arrive and they set about lighting fires, putting the kettle on to boil, and making sure that the cabin was welcoming for the next wave of Tracys. It was late when they arrived, so everyone contented themselves with an evening meal before turning in for the night.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Christmas Eve.

The day was fine, the snow thick, the air crisp and Virgil, his father, and his brothers were making the most of it. Skis and snowboards were the transportation of choice, along with a toboggan, on which each of them took turns pulling Gordon up to the top of the run. Once there they guided him, yelling in pleasure with the feeling of freedom that it afforded, off on a controlled ride back down to the bottom.

"You know," Scott puffed as he took his turn to tow their charge back to the summit of the run, "there's got be an easier way to do this."

"There is," John reminded him. "It's called a chair lift."

Scott gave him a disgusted look. "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

"Aren't you getting cold, Gordon?" Jeff asked. "Don't you want to go back inside?"

But Gordon was having a ball. "Nope."

They reached their goal and turned the toboggan around so that its driver was facing downhill. Gordon gave a little jump to try to nudge the sled forward, but it didn't move. He tried again with the same result. "Give us a push."

"A push?" Scott grumbled. "I've just pulled you to the top of the hill and now you want me to push you back down?"

Gordon favoured him with a huge grin and pulled his yellow woolly hat down further down over his protective helmet and his ears. "Yep. Warp speed ten, Scotty."

"Okay," Scott sighed. "Then it's someone else's turn."

"Maybe not." Alan pointed down the hill. "There's Grandma." He looked at his watch. "She must have lunch ready. Come on, Scott. If I'm starving, you must be famished."

"Probably why he's in a mood," Virgil suggested. "Come on, Fellas. Let's make this last one a race." He squared up next to his father.

"Good idea," Jeff grinned. "Last one down the hill clears the table."

"Except me," Gordon crowed. "Come on, Scott, push me! I want to get down there before you guys cut up the snow and spoil the ride!"

"Okay, okay..." Twisting awkwardly on his skis, Scott got down low and pushed against the toboggan, which didn't move. "Have you got it stuck on something?" he asked checking the left side of the sled. "I can't see anything. How about you, John?"

John bent down. "No... I can't see... Hang on..." He pulled on a branch that was almost completely buried by snow.

Scott had been leaning on the back of the toboggan as he searched for the obstruction and the sudden release of the 'brake' coupled with his weight shot the sled forward like a bullet from a gun. The unexpected jolt caused the elder Tracy to fall face first into the snow and Gordon to lose his hold of the steering rope. The Tracys watched, horrified, as he hurtled down the slope out of control and towards the hard wooden wall of the cabin.

"Come on!" Jeff yelled, and they all took off, speeding faster down the ski slope than they ever had before.

But they had no hope of catching up on the whooping tobogganist, and Virgil, head down to get more speed, listened for the sickening sound of impact. He looked up just in time to see Gordon plough into a snowdrift at the base of the cabin and disappear under a white fountain of frozen water.

"Gordon..." Grandma yelled, and pushed through the knee-deep snow in a desperate attempt to reach her grandson. "Gordon! Are you all right?"

The rest of the family pulled up in a shower of snow and, barely stopping to unclip their bindings, pulled off their skis and boards, ready to affect a rescue.

"There's the toboggan!" Alan pounced on the sled and started digging. "Gordon!"

A mini-avalanche rolled down the drift and a yellow-hatted head popped up from beneath the snowy grave. "That was awesome!"

Everyone released a relieved icy breath. "Are you all right, Son?" Jeff asked.

"Yep!" Gordon beamed at him. "I want to do it again! Faster next time."

He received a unanimous, "No!" from his family.

"But I'm fine." Gordon protested. "I'm not hurt."

Scott started clearing snow away. "You might be okay, but you've given the rest of us heart failure."

"Please," Gordon begged.

"No," Jeff repeated.

"Dad..." Gordon ceased his protests when he received an unequivocal glare from his father. Realising that it was a hopeless cause, he began freeing himself by pushing snow away from his torso.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

A fall of snow after lunch put paid to any immediate ideas of skiing, so Virgil retired to the workshop to do some tinkering.

He was joined an hour later by his father. "Is this where you're hiding? Everyone else is keeping warm by the fire."

Virgil indicated the pile of metal components that he was assembling. "I'm making a ski tow for Gordon so that he can pull himself up the hill."

Jeff was impressed. "Good idea. Would you like a hand?"

"I'd love one. I'm trying to assemble a braking system so that he gets the full freedom of the downhill run, but comes to a controlled, gentle stop at the bottom before he reaches the cabin. I was thinking of using some kind of friction braking, but I haven't got the parts I need." Virgil looked at his father hopefully. "I don't suppose you've got any ideas, have you?"

"Maybe…" Jeff rolled up his sleeves. "Let's see what you've got so far…"

Two hours later they'd prepared a working prototype. Virgil strapped on his snowshoes and shouldered a shovel. "It's stopped snowing, so I'm going to head up the hill to dig in the anchor post," he said.

His father was putting the tools away. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a break first? You've been working for hours."

"No. Better to get it out of the way in case it starts snowing again later. Then I'll be able to relax tomorrow."

The door to the workshop opened and Scott stepped inside. "Is this where you two are? We've been trying to decide if you'd gone AWOL or had been kidnapped by the Abominable Snowman." He looked at the unnamed contraption. "What have you been doing?"

"Giving Gordon some mobility and independence," Jeff explained. "With this he'll be able to get himself up AND down the hill in safety and without inconveniencing anyone else."

"And without giving us all heart attacks?" Scott eyed up Virgil's shovel. "You're going to have to dig it in?" He grabbed a pickaxe. "Let's go."

"You don't have to help," Virgil protested. "I'll manage."

"Are you kidding? That ground's going to be like solid rock." Scott swung the pickaxe onto his broad shoulders. "Two hands are better than one."

Virgil knew that his brother was right and was more than a little glad for the offer of help. Together they slogged up the hill and set about deciding on the optimum place to start digging. They were not altogether surprised when they were joined a short time later by Alan and John, pulling a sled holding the ski tow and more digging tools between them.

Not long afterwards their father arrived, carrying an insulated carry case. "Your grandmother's insisting that you don't do any more work until you've got something warm inside you," he said, resting the bag on the sled before opening it. He pulled out a vacuum flask, poured a steaming mug of coffee, and handed it to Virgil, who accepted it with grateful thanks.

"Gordon's right." Scott reached into the bag and pulled out an inviting parcel. "She is an angel." Unwrapping some Christmas mince pies, he held them out for his brothers and father. "Dig in. They're still warm." Claiming the last for himself, he took a big bite. "Mmmn…" he murmured. "Delicious."

Alan started clearing away the snow. "Gordon's going to love this. We'll be able to challenge him to some races."

"Gordon will love it or you will?" John asked, setting to with another shovel. "Are you hoping this'll give you the competitive edge?

"Why not? If it gives me that little bit extra for the final race, I'm not going to complain. Gomez isn't going to give away the title too easily. I'm going to have to work for it."

When they'd finished their coffee break, the five of them worked industriously until they had anchored the support post into the ground. Then they attached the ski tow and stood back to admire their efforts.

"Who's going to give it a test run?" John asked.

"I'll do it," Virgil volunteered. "It was my idea so it should be my neck."

"In that case…" Alan snapped his boots into the bindings of his snowboard, "I'll meet you down there to pick up the pieces."

Virgil glared at the departing back. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." He settled onto the toboggan. "Is he in position?"

"Yep," John responded. "Do you want a countdown?"

Virgil shrugged. "Why not?"

Scott got onto his wristwatch telecom. "This is mission control calling lunar module retriever. Do you read me, Alan?"

"This is lunatic… I mean, lu_nar_ module retriever. Reading you strength five."

"Are you in position?"

"Roger that. I am awaiting touchdown."

Scott grinned at Virgil. "You're set to go."

"So I gathered."

"Five…"

"Four…"

"Three…"

"Two…"

"One!"

Virgil released the toboggan.

It was a blast sailing down the hill at speed, so close to the ground, and Virgil knew that Gordon was going to love his new toy. He braced himself for the braking system to kick into action.

And kick it did! The brakes slammed the toboggan to a halt, stopping it as effectively as if it had hit a brick wall and sending him tumbling head-first off the end. Virgil ended up lying, face up, beside a pair of boots.

Blue eyes laughing, Alan crouched down. "You know what the problem is, don't you?" He prodded Virgil's midriff. "You're too fat!"

Virgil propped himself onto his elbows. "I am not fat!"

Two wristwatch telecoms sparked into life. "What happened?" their father's voice asked.

Alan looked at the miniature video screen. "Virgil's too fat."

"I am not fat!" Getting to his feet and brushing snow off his clothes, Virgil heard laughter from the tiny speakers. "I am not fat, John!" he reiterated.

"_I_ never said anything," John responded, amusement clear in his voice. "Not a word."

Alan kept the channel open. "You're going to have to eat less, Virgil… Maybe starting with Christmas dinner tomorrow?"

Virgil stared at him. "What?!"

"You can share Gordon's dinner. Everything he's going to eat has to be steamed and grilled. And as for dessert…"

Realisation dawned. "You just want more for yourself, Alan!" Virgil folded his arms and faced his youngest brother, deciding that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander… or at least the turkey. "If anyone should be on a diet, it's you."

Not expecting his volley to be returned, Alan took a metaphorical and literal step backwards. "Me? Why? I don't need to go on a diet."

"Maybe not now, but after you've gorged yourself tomorrow…" Virgil shook his head. "I'd hate for you to arrive at Parola Sands ready for your championship winning race, only to not be able to fit in the seat of your car."

"It won't happen," Alan protested.

"If you eat what Gordon's eating then it won't…"

"Boys," their father interrupted, "it's too cold to be standing around listening to the pair of you discuss the menu and if you don't stop it you'll both be eating with Gordon. Now…You were saying that Virgil was too heavy for the toboggan, Alan?"

"Yes," Alan snapped back into serious mode. "Gordon weighs way less than any of us." He pointed to some full, lumpy sacks. "I think I couple of bags of kindling should approximate his weight."

"You've made a good point." Virgil eyed the sacks. "But kindling won't be able to control the toboggan."

"So?" Alan smirked. "You couldn't control it either." He grabbed a sack and hefted it onto the sled.

Virgil held his tongue and placed a second bag beside the first, lying it flat to keep the centre of gravity low. "Let's see how it handles the return journey." He pulled a lever on the side of the toboggan and it began a sedate climb back up to the rest of the party. "Well, at least that works."

Shielding their eyes against the glare of the snow and the winter sun, the two brothers watched as the toboggan crested the hill. "So far, so good," Alan commented.

"Any problems?" Virgil asked his watch.

"Negative. Testing: phase one, is complete," Jeff Tracy announced. "Phase two is about to begin." The two bags of kindling began their return journey down the hill, skipping over the snow at speed until they neared their destination, when they began to slow down, coming to a gentle stop at Virgil and Alan's feet.

"Looked good from this end," Virgil noted. "How about up there?"

"It's working well," Jeff responded. "Send it back up, Virgil."

"Right."

After two more test runs Virgil and Alan heard tapping on a window behind them. They turned and Gordon pushed the window open. "When can I have a go?"

"I thought you were having a sleep," Alan remarked.

"Only a short one. You guys have been out there for hours. Well…? Can I have a ride?"

Alan spoke into his watch. "There's a test pilot inside who wants to take it for a run. Dare we let him?"

"What do you think, Virgil?" their father asked. "Are you happy with its performance?"

"I think it's ready. What do you say? Should we let him try it out?"

"So long as he's got his helmet strapped on firmly, then I can't see any problems."

Gordon submitted to Alan and Virgil carrying him through the deep snow to the toboggan. "Right! How do you operate this thing?"

"This lever releases the brake allowing the cable to retract back up the hill," Virgil explained. "When you're ready to come back down again, reverse the lever."

"Gotcha." Gordon released the brake and his brothers watched as his beaming face cruised up and away from them. There was a short wait after he'd reached the summit, as a discussion was held, before he came zipping back down the hill, yelling in delight. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed when he'd come to a gentle halt. "That was absolutely brilliant, Virgil!" He grasped his brother's hand. "Thanks."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

December 25th

Christmas Day

Virgil awoke early. Not out of some optimistic wish to find presents in a stocking at the end of his bed, but to fulfil a promise he'd made the previous evening. He dressed himself in his swimming gear, put a robe on, and then, taking care to tread quietly, padded down the hall.

The rest of the house was in silence. Some of the family would be still sleeping, while others, the most likely being Scott, would be indulging in their early morning rituals such as working out in the small gym.

Virgil knocked on Gordon's door and let himself in. "Merry Christmas," he whispered.

"Merry Christmas," Gordon wasn't bothering to whisper. "You're late. I was about to come and get _you_ out of bed." He struggled to sit up, obviously feeling the effects of the previous day's activities. "Maybe I overdid it a little yesterday."

"Here," Virgil grabbed the wheelchair.

"I don't want to use that," Gordon complained, trying to get his legs out from under the bedclothes. "I'll use the scaffolding instead." He pointed to a tall walking frame that stood next to his bed.

"Gordon," Virgil protested, "you can barely move, let alone stand. Let me wheel you down to the pool in this and then, when you've loosened up, you can use your 'scaffolding'. Come on," he positioned the 'chair beside the bed and pulled back the blankets. "Can you swing yourself around?"

Gordon didn't answer, all his concentration was on trying to remain upright while getting his stiff and sore legs out of the bed. Emitting little grunts of discomfort, he eventually succeeded and he sat on the edge, frowning at the wheelchair.

Virgil didn't even bother to ask. He slid his arm about his brother so that he could support him as he eased himself from the bed to the 'chair, then he handed over the swimming trunks that were hanging on the heated towel rail.

It wasn't as if he hadn't seen it all before, but Virgil felt that Gordon would appreciate a degree of privacy as he changed. So he busied himself with making the bed; keeping out of the way, but still available should help be needed.

And judging from the grunts and muttered curses that were coming from the 'chair, help _was_ needed, but this time Virgil waited to be asked.

Eventually there was a frustrated sigh of defeat. "Virgil?"

"Yes?"

Gordon had succeeded in discarding his pyjama jacket, but had failed in his attempt to remove the pants. "I'm sorry, but I need a hand."

"Okay," Virgil shrugged. "If I grab you under the arms and lift, you'll be able to pull them down, won't you?"

"Ah... But it's not only that..." Gordon reddened slightly. "I need to go in there." His thumb jerked in the direction of a wall.

"Oh." Virgil looked at the door that led to the adjacent toilet. "How do you want to handle this?"

"If..." and Gordon's reddened complexion turned scarlet. "If you could... kinda... lift me like you were going to, but swing me around onto the, er, seat, I... I can take care of the rest."

Virgil shrugged; trying to make it seem as if this request was the most natural thing that one brother would ask another. "Okay." He grabbed the wheelchair's handles and wheeled it into the ensuite toilet area, assisted with the transfer quickly and with no fuss, and then left. "Give me a yell when you're ready."

He waited just outside the door reflecting that this was something new. He'd often thought that Gordon didn't even know what embarrassment was, let alone how it felt; and yet here his brother was, ashamed to admit that he needed assistance with one of the most basic of human needs.

He heard the sound of running water.

"Finished..."

Gordon had made the most of the opportunity to divest himself of what remained of his pyjamas and had managed to pull his swimming trunks halfway up his thighs. A towel rested on his lap. "I'm sorry, Virgil," he said, looking even more shamefaced.

"Don't sweat it," Virgil reassured him and, giving Gordon long enough to pull the trunks on fully, swung him back into the wheelchair.

"I'm really sorry," Gordon reiterated. "I didn't think I'd need help like that anymore."

"Like I said, don't worry about it. I could hardly leave you sitting there in that condition... I only hope you never have to repay the favour."

"Me too." Gordon gave an emphatic nod. "I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. I hate being helpless."

"You're not as helpless as you were," Virgil reminded him. "And you are getting better." He engaged the motor on the wheelchair so that Gordon would be able to propel himself through the building and then picked up the walking frame. "You know, you didn't have to bring this from the Willis. I could have knocked you something together in the workshop."

Gordon chuckled, some of his good humour restored, and then thought for a moment. "You know, it's strange. When I was paralysed I didn't think anything about what those nurses had to do to me. Some of them had to get pretty intimate with inserting catheters and things like that, but since I couldn't feel it, I didn't care. But now that I've got full feeling and some mobility I can't stand the idea of having people help me with the personal stuff."

They travelled through the building in the direction of the indoor, heated, pool.

Gordon snorted a laugh. "You know that old joke about the hospital patient who hated one of the nurses?"

"Remind me."

"This particular nurse was the one who always seemed to get the most pleasure out of giving him painful injections and doing the most embarrassing things to him. Then, one day, he was asked to give a sample, so he thought he'd take the opportunity to get some revenge. So he put apple juice into the sample container instead of..."

"I've got the picture," Virgil said.

"Good… Then when this nurse came in to collect the sample she made a comment about how it seemed to be a bit cloudy. So the patient said: _in that case, let's filter it through the system again_, grabbed the cup back off her, and drank it down." Gordon laughed. "You should have seen her face."

Virgil gasped. "You didn't!?"

"I did."

"Which nurse? Not Ange?"

"No, of course not. She's too nice. No, it was the battleaxe who told us off for having the pillow fight."

"How did you get away with it? That joke's so old it's got more whiskers than Santa Claus."

"She wouldn't know a joke if it reared up and bit her," Gordon chuckled. "She must trust my innocent face."

"Yeah, right..."

They came to the indoor pool and Virgil stripped off his robe. "If I support you, will you be able to walk down the steps? We'll take it slowly."

"I gotta try at least." Gordon managed to wriggle out of his robe before looking down at what had once been taut, toned muscle. "I'm a mess," he commented as he traced one particularly long scar with his fingers.

"Compared to the first day when you were unconscious with a humungous hole in your abdomen and with half your insides hanging out, you look pretty good," Virgil corrected. "That's just the façade, what matters is that the foundations are still intact."

"I only hope that termites don't decide to move in."

"You can't see the scars when you've got your shirt on anyway," Virgil commented and let Gordon put his arm around his shoulders.

Taking it slowly so that his body could adjust to the reorientation, Gordon stood. "Right. That's stage one. Stage two is to start moving."

"I could probably carry you," Virgil offered.

"No. I've already asked you to do more than anyone could reasonably expect," Gordon swung a leg forward. "I'm going to walk."

It took them a good twenty minutes to get from the wheelchair and down the shallow steps into the water. Once there, Virgil swam alongside his brother, keeping pace in case he ran into difficulties, but when it became obvious that Gordon's muscles were beginning to loosen up and that he didn't need any help, Virgil pulled himself out of the pool and sat on the side to watch the exercise session.

Gordon began his workout by pulling himself through the water with a lazy breaststroke. After two lengths of the pool he rolled onto his back and started another lap.

"Merry Christmas, Virgil."

Virgil looked up and smiled at his father. "Merry Christmas."

Jeff pulled off his slippers, rolled up his pants, and sat next to his son. "How is he today?"

"Sore. It took us about three quarters of an hour just to get to the pool, but I think he's starting to loosen up now."

"He moves a lot more freely in the water than he does on land," Jeff commented. "He's in his element in there."

Father and son sat in companionable silence for a couple of laps, watching as Gordon finished swimming on his back and reverted to his original breaststroke.

Virgil frowned. "I've just realised something," he said quietly. "Look at his face."

"His face?" Jeff leant forward so he could get a clearer view. "What about it?"

"It's not wet."

Jeff looked between sons. "Yes, it is."

"Not really wet. Those droplets are only from where he's splashed himself. He hasn't put his face under the water since he got into the pool."

"What?!" Jeff watched as his second youngest rolled over on to his back again.

"He's only done those two strokes, and neither involves putting your head under water; not the way he's doing them anyway."

Jeff gave Virgil a strange look. When he next spoke it was when his other son had reached the end of the pool. "Merry Christmas, Gordon."

Gordon grabbed the wall for support and his face lit up when he saw his father. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better now. Virgil'll tell you that I was a bit stiff to start with." Gordon gave a disarming grin. "I had too much fun yesterday."

"You're moving a lot more freely," Jeff commented. "Have you tried swimming the butterfly yet?"

"No. My back's not strong enough. I think I'm going to have to wait a few more weeks before I'll be able to attempt that with any success."

Jeff continued his subtle questioning. "How about freestyle? Can you swing your arm over to do that? You don't seem to be having any problems with backstroke."

Gordon had lost some of his smile. "I'm taking things slowly."

Jeff took a metaphorical step back. "That's good, Son. We don't want you overdoing it, not on Christmas day." He glanced at Virgil.

Gordon started swimming his lazy breaststroke again. Halfway across the pool he attempted a similarly lethargic freestyle, still not putting his face under water. He reached the far wall, stopped, and appeared to steel himself.

Virgil glanced at his father and then slipped into the pool.

Gordon pushed away from the side, swam two breaststrokes, two ineffectual freestyle strokes, and then put his face in the water...

Virgil was at his brother's side the instant Gordon panicked. Coughing, the red-head clung on tightly and Virgil could feel a frantic heart beating. "Don't let me go..."

"I'm not going to let you go," Virgil soothed. "Relax... It's okay..."

Gordon took a shuddering breath, swallowed, and then pushed away, treading water. "I-I'm okay... It was, ah, cramp... In my leg! Yes, that's what was wrong. I got a case of cramp."

Virgil decided that the best thing to do was play along. "Has it gone?"

"Ah... Yeah..." Gordon gave a shaky smile. "Thanks."

"Do you want a hand to get out of the water?"

Gordon nodded, but said, "No. I'd better do another couple of laps... Just to make sure it's gone... You know?" and Virgil saw the determined look return to his brother's eye.

Virgil watched as Gordon started swimming again and then pulled himself out of the water next to his father. "I thought you said that this was going to be a quiet year."

"I wish I'd been right," Jeff leant on Virgil's shoulder to help himself up.

Virgil looked up at him. "Where are you going?"

Jeff pulled on his slippers. "To call the Willis. His counsellor should know about this."

"You can't call them now. It's Christmas day!"

Jeff looked grim. "Then I'll leave a message on their voicemail to call me the instant they get to work." He stalked out of the heated room and Virgil turned his attention back to where Gordon was finishing his final lap of the morning.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Christmas dinner had been one of the best that Virgil had remembered in a long time. Whether his grandmother had surpassed herself with her cooking this year, or whether it was the fact that they were, almost unexpectedly, all together, he didn't know. He just knew that he felt happy and contented and, judging by the way that they were sitting back in their chairs, everyone else felt the same.

"That was great, Grandma." Scott stretched. "I couldn't eat another thing."

"That's a first," Alan snickered.

John pulled the curtain back so he was able to look out the window. "It's a brilliantly clear night. I might get out my telescope."

"Why?" Alan asked. "It's too late to see Santa Claus. He'll be just about home by now."

"Then I'll see if I can spot the Easter Bunny..."

"Before anyone does leave," Gordon put the last crumbs of his one treat, a small slither of Christmas cake, into his mouth, "I want to say something. And, simply because I can, I'm going to get to my feet to say it." He stood, leaning on the table for support. "The last four months have been tough... for us all... And... I know I've missed Thanksgiving, but I wanted to thank you for all your support, for being there when I needed you, for helping me when I needed help and for putting your lives on hold while I got mine back together. I want you to know that I appreciate all that you did for me. And," he pulled his party hat off his head as he looked at Virgil, "all that you didn't do for me."

Virgil raised his glass in a salute.

"I know I've missed the deadline; and that I'll have to go through various neurological, physical, and psychological tests to prove I'm fit..." Several mouths opened to pass comment. "Yeah, yeah, I know! Who'd know the difference...? But... I want to be part of International Rescue, even if it's only cleaning your craft after a rescue." He tossed his hat into the middle of the table and looked at his family with earnest eyes. "That's if you'll have me." Speech finished, he sat down.

There was a moment's silence. Then Jeff Tracy spoke. "Well, I'm going to get to my feet too, and that's because I am delighted to do so... Gordon..." he looked across at his second youngest, "nothing will give me, or any of us, more pleasure than to have you as part of our team. And I'm sure that you'll have a greater role than simply cleaning down the Thunderbirds."

"Not that we won't stop you from doing it," John quipped.

Virgil grinned. "That's the co-pilot's job, isn't it?"

Alan laughed and raised his glass. "I'll drink to that."

"Hear, hear," Scott agreed.

Jeff leant forward, hand outstretched. "Welcome aboard, Son."

Gordon got to his feet again, he face beaming in delight as he accepted the handshake. "Thanks, Dad."

Jeff's smile was nearly as broad as he reclaimed his chair. "Well, I must say that you boys have given me the best Christmas present. To know that all five of my sons are going to be part of my dream is something that I'd hoped for, but never really expected. I wouldn't have been disappointed if any of you had chosen to follow your own career paths, but I've got to admit that I'm mighty pleased. Mighty pleased indeed."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

28th December

"I'm really sorry," Gordon apologised again as he was assisted into the family jet. "You don't all have to cut short your vacation, just because of me. Most of you can stay here and enjoy yourselves."

"Don't worry about it," Virgil responded. "We've all already made other plans anyway."

"Yes, I'm looking forward to having someone look after me for a change," Grandma added. "I'm tired of cooking for you lot."

"And Alan had to get in some practise before his big race," Jeff stated. "And those urgent jobs that I needed Scott and John to do simply couldn't wait."

"I know." But Gordon still looked downcast. He'd enjoyed having his family around him in an environment other than a hospital ward, and his disappointment in seeing three of his brothers fly out early that morning had been palpable.

The flight to the Willis Institute was quick and uneventful and Gordon was welcomed back like a long lost friend, which went some way to cheering him up again. While he underwent a physiotherapy session with Catherine, Jeff and Virgil took the opportunity to talk to his counsellor about Gordon's apparent fear of total submersion in water. They were surprised to discover that Gordon had already expressed his concerns to the therapist.

It was later that day that Alan turned up at the hospital. "Hiya, Gordon."

"Alan!" Gordon's eyes were round. "What are you doing here? I thought you were back in training."

"Done it," Alan said dismissively. "Karl's happy with the way I'm driving, so he's given me a couple more days off."

"Yeah!? So are you going to hang around here with us?" Gordon asked, his expression brightening.

Alan gave an offhand shrug. "Actually I was thinking of getting away for a break. Somewhere with plenty of sun."

Gordon's face fell. "Where're you going?"

"The same place we're _all_ going," Jeff stated. "Have you got Gordon's bag ready, Mother?"

"All ready," she confirmed and Virgil took the suitcase from her, carrying it through the complex, back to the Tracy jet.

"Where are we going?" Gordon asked. "Back to the cabin? Or maybe home?"

"Depends on what you mean by home," Jeff told him.

Gordon stared at him. "Huh?"

Virgil stepped forward. "Do you want a hand to climb the steps?"

Gordon gave his blanket to his grandmother, accepted Virgil's support, and, leaning heavily on his brother's shoulders, climbed into the aeroplane. "Where are we going?" he repeated.

"I think I'm hearing an echo of the past," Alan said and looked out the aeroplane's door. "Ah, here she is." He bounded outside.

Gordon stared at his grandmother, who was in the cabin getting things ready for the flight. "Who?"

"Let me take that," they heard Alan's voice say. "After you," and Catherine climbed on board, followed by the youngest Tracy carrying a suitcase. This he stowed in a luggage compartment as Virgil escorted the physiotherapist to the seat beside Gordon.

Gordon stared at her. "You're coming too?"

"Yes," she told him as she handed Virgil her warm jacket to hang in a locker. "I want to keep an eye on my prize patient." She smiled at Grandma Tracy who claimed the aisle seat next to her.

"O-Kay," Gordon enunciated. "Change of question. Since you're coming with us, Catherine, how long are we going for? It must be longer than 24 hours."

Alan tapped him on the knee. "Shut up and wait, Gordon," he teased as he settled into the seat beside Virgil, opposite Catherine.

The physiotherapist was looking around the aeroplane. "Wow, I've only ever travelled domestic before. This is something else!"

"When it comes to planes, Father won't have anything but the best." Virgil gave a nonchalant shrug. "This girl's a dream to fly."

"That's pilot speak for it's one of the best, safest, most comfortable 'planes on the market," Alan explained.

Catherine laughed. "Well, after the number of miles Virgil must have flown the last few months, I suppose he should know the lingo."

"Would someone at least give me a clue?" Gordon begged. "How far are we going?"

"From here to there," his Grandmother told him.

"But where's there?"

"Shut up and wait, Gordon," Alan teased.

"Is everything in order?" Virgil asked his father as the latter re-entered the aeroplane. "Do you need a hand with anything?"

"No, everything's fine, thanks." Jeff smiled at their guest. "Ready for the trip, Catherine?"

She gave a vigorous nod. "Definitely," she enthused. "I often wondered what it's like to take a working holiday."

"Well, you're about to find out... All set, Gordon?"

"All except for one thing... Where are we going?"

Jeff laughed. "Shut up and wait, Gordon."

Gordon groaned. "Virgil!" he leant forward, pleading for information. "Where are we going...? And don't say up!" he added when Virgil grinned at him.

"I'm sworn to secrecy," Virgil admitted. "I'm not allowed to tell you."

"Give me a hint."

Virgil glanced at Catherine, Grandma and then finally Alan. "Okay. We're heading south... ish."

"Southish?"

"Yes," Alan nodded. "Southish."

"Southish," his frustrated brother sighed. "Okay, I get the message. Shut up and wait, Gordon."

At first the flight was just as the one back home had been, with Gordon glued to the window, drinking in the sights. It wasn't until they crossed a coast and headed out over a large body of water that Virgil noticed a change in his brother's demeanour. Gordon had closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the headrest, and Virgil might have assumed that the younger man had fallen asleep if it weren't for the fact that his brother was still exercising his hands by squeezing two rubber balls.

The others were passing the time in light-hearted conversation, but it wasn't until Grandma suggested that it might be time for something to eat that Gordon joined in. After a quick look out the window to check that they were still flying over water, he focussed his attention on his food and his fellow passengers.

After he'd finished eating, Virgil decided that it was time to relieve his father of the controls of the aeroplane. He knew that Jeff Tracy had spent a little time piloting over the last few months, but figured that his father was probably beginning to feel the effects of a long stint at the control yoke. He also knew that Jeff would never willingly admit to the fact until he reached the point where he was going to be a danger to himself and others. "Hey, Father."

Jeff glanced over his shoulder. "Hi, Virgil. How's things going in there?"

"Gordon's still trying to get us to tell him where we're going, but I'd say by now he'll be starting to make some intelligent guesses... We've just eaten; do you want me to take over for a bit while you grab a bite?"

Jeff nodded. "Sounds like a good idea, thanks. I'll be back soon."

"Take your time."

The changeover had been so smooth that no one in the passenger cabin even realised that it had happened until Jeff claimed the recently vacated seat.

After two hours of flying into darkening skies, Virgil was still at the controls when he acknowledged the initial radio contact with their destination. "Hi, John."

"Hi, Virgil. Have you pushed the old man out of the pilot's seat?"

"He got hungry so we did a swap. Have you got the welcome mat out for us?"

"Not only the welcome mat; we've got the red carpet. What's your ETA?"

Virgil checked the chronometer. "Twenty two point four two minutes."

John laughed. "Scott's got his stopwatch on and counting."

"What's the weather like?"

"Great! You're lucky. We caught the tail end of a storm that passed through. The sea's still rough, but that won't bother you unless you're planning to ditch the plane."

"That," Virgil said with feeling, "is not part of the flight plan."

"Glad to hear it. Can you patch me through to the in-plane intercom?"

"Putting you through." Virgil flicked a switch and a light on the control panel told him that his brother's next words would be heard by all on board.

"Good day, Ladies and Gentlemen," John's disembodied voice announced. "This is international airspace. We would like to welcome Flight Three-Two-Four Virgil Pacific Airways to T.I. Airport. The temperature is a balmy 24 degrees Celsius and the air speed is a gentle two knots. In a short time if you would care to look out your starboard window you will get your first glimpse of your destination today..."

Virgil wondered if Gordon was looking out the window.

"When you land, do not be frightened by the natives. They are completely harmless; provided you do not try to hand feed the darker varieties..." Laughter from the passenger cabin preceded a "_Get off, Scott...!_" and a break in transmission.

The intercom clicked back into life and Scott's voice continued. "My apologies, Ladies and Gentlemen. That interruption was caused by a tropical species known as Johnus Tracious, generally nocturnal and prone to unpredictable behaviour if exposed to bright light for extended periods of time. We will endeavour to have this creature under control by the time you have landed. I will now ask your pilot to circumnavigate your destination before he comes in for landing."

Jeff had swapped seats with Catherine so that she could look out the window at the small island surrounded by miles of ocean. As she took in the azure seas, the crystal clear lagoons, the golden sands, and the palm trees, she uttered a small exclamation. "This is a genuine tropical paradise! Look, Gordon."

Gordon didn't follow her advice. "I've seen it."

Catherine was still caught up in the excitement of her trip. "I can see right into the crater..." She looked over at her host. "The volcano is extinct, isn't it, Mr Tracy?"

He gave her a reassuring smile. "It last erupted some five hundred thousand years ago. I think we're safe."

Virgil took back control of the intercom. "This is your pilot speaking. Please ensure that your seats are upright and that your safety harnesses are securely fastened."

Lining up the aeroplane with the runway that stretched in from the Pacific Ocean towards the imposing cliffs, Virgil made sure that the landing was as smooth as his father's takeoff had been. Once the aeroplane had come to rest, he undid his safety harness, waved to the three figures striding across the tarmac, and walked back into the passenger cabin.

"Excellent landing, Virgil," Jeff congratulated.

"I learnt from the master." Taking a moment to enjoy the compliment, Virgil opened the exterior door and almost immediately Scott bounded inside, closely followed by John.

"Good timing, Virg," Scott held up a stopwatch to display its readout. "You were pretty close with your estimation. You made it here in twenty five point one seven minutes."

"I would have been on the money if I hadn't done that circuit of the island."

Scott laughed. "How was the trip?" he asked. "Did you enjoy the flight, Gordon?"

Gordon was beaming. "I'll enjoy being on land more."

Jeff treated Virgil to a wry look. "That's what he thinks of our flying abilities." He turned back to the welcoming committee. "You've got everything sorted?" There was the merest hint of emphasis on the word 'everything'.

"We're missing one or two things..." Scott began.

"Like carpet," John interrupted when he saw his father's alarmed expression. "That still hasn't arrived. But we figured that it would be easier to push the wheelchair about on bare floorboards anyway."

"Hey," Gordon complained. "I don't need a wheelchair now."

"Not so much inside, anyway," Jeff corrected. "Are you sure that bare floorboards are a good idea?" The alarmed expression had subsided to a slight frown of concern which creased his forehead.

"We've laid a few mats strategically about the place," Scott reassured him, "to make it more homely. Nothing to worry about."

"Good." Jeff stretched. "Then let's get out of here. I'm sure Catherine's tired of being cooped up like a sardine and I know Gordon will want to breathe in that good sea air."

From Gordon's expression as Scott helped him outside and into the wheelchair, Virgil wasn't so sure about that.

"We'll let the others grab the bags," John suggested. "Let's go and get some fresh air, Gordon." He had a brief tussle with Scott over who would get to push the wheelchair, won the battle, and the three of them headed off down the airstrip.

"Hi, Kyrano," Alan greeted the Asiatic man who was standing a little back from the family group.

"Hello, Mister Alan."

"How's Tin-Tin?"

"She is well, thank you. Her studies are keeping her busy."

"Did you have a good Christmas with Lady Penelope?"

Kyrano inclined his head. "Her Ladyship is an excellent host."

"Catherine, this is Kyrano," Jeff introduced. "Catherine is Gordon's physiotherapist, Kyrano."

Kyrano bowed. "It is a pleasure, Miss Catherine."

Virgil started unloading the hold; handing everyone's bags, as well as the equipment that Gordon would need, to Alan who was placing them onto Kyrano's trolley.

"Where's Brains?" Grandma asked.

Kyrano smiled a gentle, but somewhat indulgent smile. "Mister Brains is in his laboratory 'catching up'. Mister Scott, Mister John and I have all reminded him that you were coming, but he is very involved in his work."

"I thought I told him to have a break?" Jeff growled. "He should take some time out to relax."

"He says that his work relaxes him."

Grandma tutted. "That boy's asking for trouble. He needs a hobby."

"If you were to say that to him, Mother, he'd say that he has hobbies," Jeff pointed out.

This time she humphed. "I don't call studying trigonometry and thermodynamics relaxing."

Jeff shrugged. "Each to his own... Don't worry, Catherine, we'll drag him out of his lab and introduce the pair of you sometime before we leave on the second."

Alan took control of the luggage trolley. "Hey, Gordon!" he called to the three men coming in from their stroll. "I'll challenge you to a race. You in your 'chair; me pushing this thing."

"You boys weren't gone very long," Grandma commented.

Scott's expression was sombre. So was John's, as he offered an explanation. "The sea breeze is a bit cold, so we didn't go very far."

Virgil stared at his brothers. 'Cold' was not a word he'd use to describe the sea breeze. Coming from a northern hemisphere winter into the southern hemisphere summer, coupled with offloading the luggage, had caused him to break out into a minor sweat.

Gordon diverted the conversation away from short jaunts and temperature variations. "What was that you were saying about a race, Alan? Where's the finish line?"

"Up at the house," Jeff rumbled. "You've got some sleep to catch up on before you do anything too strenuous."

"And I think you're due a massage, Gordon," Catherine suggested. "You've been sitting for too long. If you don't loosen up now, you won't be able to move tomorrow."

"A massage! Sounds like a great idea," Alan quipped. "I'm next in the queue." He ducked a clip about the ear from his grandma.

On the trip up to the house, Scott and John kept everyone entertained with tales of their flight through the tail end of the storm. Their conversation remained upbeat until they reached the entrance that lead into the lounge. There they stopped and turned to face their family and Catherine.

"Ah... Before we go in," Scott began. "We just want you know that it's not our fault."

"What's not your fault?" Alan asked.

"Ah... That..." John jerked his thumb in the direction of the lounge. He offered up no other explanation.

"You two are being very mysterious," Jeff said. "What has happened? Have you painted the walls fluorescent pink?"

Scott gave an uncertain chuckle. "No, nothing like that."

Alan stared at him. "Then what _have_ you done?"

"We, er, haven't _done_ anything," John admitted. "We weren't here at the time."

"All we ask is that you remember that what has been _done_ was _done_ with the best intentions..." Scott explained. "So go easy on him." He stepped aside. "You'd better go in."

The first thing that captured Virgil's attention was the gleaming baby grand piano that dominated one half of the window end of the room. Pleased that his prize had finally been released from the captivity of its crate in the storeroom, he made a beeline for it to check it out. Yes, he decided, he'd definitely made the right decision choosing a white instrument. The room was bright and airy, and a black piano would have dominated the outlook over the Pacific Ocean, spoiling the whole effect.

As he sat down and raised the lid that protected the duel-hued keys, he was practically purring in pleasure. After many long months he was finally going to have the opportunity to play a _real_ piano. Expecting the full melodic sound he'd heard in the shop, he pressed a key and cringed at the noise that emerged. Obviously the piano had not appreciated the move halfway around the world and being crated up for months. It required not only a tune, but he also decided that the pitch would need to be raised. Checking in the piano stool, he was relieved to find that someone, probably Scott, had placed his tuning tools inside.

He was about to start work when he heard Alan laugh and then Gordon's indignant "Hey! That's not right!" Looking up he realised that the rest of the group had gathered around a series of portraits on the wall. Curious, he left the piano and wandered over to see what was wrong.

"Who did this?" Gordon demanded, glaring at two of his elder brothers.

"Ah… Brains," John admitted. "He did it when we were at the Willis. Don't be mad at him. He thought he was doing the right thing."

"But he's put my portrait last!"

Virgil examined the row of five portraits. They were of him and his brothers in civilian clothes and were destined to be the communications link between them all and International Rescue's headquarters. The problem was that they'd been hung in the order of John, Scott, himself, Alan and finally Gordon.

Brains had got the Tracy pecking order seriously wrong.

Alan was still laughing. "It all looks fine to me."

"Um... Scott…?" Catherine began, unsure as to whether or not she was speaking out of turn. "I thought you were the oldest?"

"I am," he admitted.

"Then why is John's portrait the first one?"

Virgil thought he knew why, but he didn't dare voice his opinions. He figured that Brains would have decided that John, as the principal Space Monitor, would be the first to make contact during a rescue. Scott, in charge of the super-fast, first-to-the-scene Thunderbird One, would be second. Virgil, in the slower, but vitally important Thunderbird Two, was naturally third in the queue. Alan, as the secondary Space Monitor and pilot of the less frequently used Thunderbird Three was fourth. And, Virgil hypothesised, when Brains had installed these portraits he, like everyone else at the time, had probably thought that there was no way that Gordon would ever take an active role in International Rescue, and was therefore last in the hierarchy.

As he thought this, Virgil briefly wondered if he should be worried that he was actually thinking like the little engineer.

John was enjoying seeing his family's reactions. "Personally," he chuckled, "I can't see anything wrong with the way he's hung them."

Scott glared at him. "You know full well what's wrong with it," he growled. "I should be…"

"Oh!" There was a startled voice from the edge of the room. "Y-Y-You're here already?"

"Brains!" Jeff greeted the little engineer with a big smile. "It's good to see you again."

"G-G-Good to s-s-see you t-t-too, M-M-Mr Tracy." Brains' stutter was as bad as Virgil had ever heard, probably exacerbated by the glares he was receiving from some members of the family. "I, ah, I s-s-see you've d-d-discovered m-my, er, m-m-mistake?"

"I'll say," Gordon muttered.

"I-I-I am s-s-s-s…"

"Don't worry about it," Jeff soothed. "I've never heard it said that Jeff Tracy was a slave to convention. I quite like it in this order; it'll remind the boys to think outside the square."

"Th-Thank you, Sir." Brains gave a shy, but relieved smile. "G-Good to see you again, Gordon. You're looking well."

Realising that, by order of his father, the portrait sequence was a _fait accompli_, Gordon smiled. "You too, Brains."

Jeff introduced Catherine, who accepted Brains' nervous handshake before suggesting that it was time that she helped Gordon with some of his therapy and he caught up on his sleep. Kyrano bowed. "Let me show you to your room and then to the infirmary, Miss Catherine."

When the physiotherapist, Kyrano, and Gordon had left, Jeff slapped Brains and John on the back as he smiled at Scott. "You've done well. If I didn't know better I wouldn't realise that there was anything different about this place."

"We concentrated on the areas that might arouse suspicion," Scott conceded. "We've still got a heck of a lot to do. And that's in the house! Apart from my 'bird we're way behind in assembling the main vehicles."

"Don't worry about that now," Jeff advised. "This week's part of Gordon's rehabilitation. He's our primary focus at the moment."

"How was he on the trip out?" John asked and Scott shot him a quick look.

"Excited," Alan said. "He went a bit quiet near the beginning, but once the food arrived we couldn't shut him up."

Jeff was frowning at the way John had asked the question. "Why?"

"Well…" John looked at Scott for support and the latter gave a reluctant nod. "You know how we took him for that quick walk down the runway? We thought he'd enjoy getting closer to the sea…" he paused and glanced back at his brother.

Scott took up the narrative. "He was okay at first, but when we were about halfway there…"

"Where the runway starts to jut out into the sea …"

"The water's a bit rough from the storm, and it was splashing near to where we were walking…"

"Gordon became…" John thought briefly. "…Agitated."

"Yes," Scott agreed. "He demanded that we turn around. He _said_ he was cold."

"Oh…" Jeff murmured. He looked at Virgil. "What do you think?"

"I did notice that he didn't look out of the windows much after we'd crossed the coast," Virgil admitted. "He had his eyes shut part of the way."

"Maybe he doesn't want to get near the water until he can swim in it?" Alan suggested, not aware of some of his family's concerns. "Perhaps he's waiting to treat himself?"

Jeff Tracy looked at his youngest son with a deep frown of concern. "Perhaps…"

_To be continued..._


	25. A Quiet Paddle

_Okay, for those who asked, in the context of this story "Founder's Day" is January 2__nd__ – Jeff Tracy's birthday._

**25: A Quiet Paddle**

The following day the family stirred from their slumber. Gordon, with Catherine's help, was the last down to breakfast. "What have you got planned for me today?" he asked as his wheelchair was pushed up to the table.

"We've set up an exercise pool next to the gym," Scott told him. "It's not as deep as the outside pool, so you'll be able to carry on with your exercises."

"Great!" Gordon grabbed at his spoon and then promptly dropped it. "Blasted motor skills." He made a more concerted effort at wrapping his fingers about the implement and managed to pick it up, smiling in triumph.

"We haven't given Catherine a full tour of the house yet," John noted. "We can't have her getting lost."

Alan was buttering a slice of toast. "It's been that long since I've been here that I'm scared _I'll_ get lost."

"I think you're going to be giving us all the full tour, John," Virgil commented. "Things have changed since I was here too."

The 'tour' was put on hold until after Gordon had had his first set of exercises for the day. Then the group was escorted around the easily accessible areas of the Tracy estate. There was, Virgil reflected, still a lot of work to be done. He began to have second thoughts about staying that extra month at ACE.

"How about a walk along the shore?" Scott suggested after lunch. "John and I have laid a temporary boardwalk at the tree line so we can get the wheelchair down there."

"Sounds good to me," Jeff agreed. "Do you feel up to it, Gordon?"

Gordon opened his mouth as if he was going to say something. Then he shut it again and appeared to come to a decision. "Yes. Okay."

"Are you coming with us, Catherine?"

She patted her mouth to hide a yawn. "I'd love to, Mr Tracy, but I think I'd better take a nap. These time zones are playing havoc with my body clock and I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Was your bed uncomfortable?" Grandma asked.

"No. It was just that first night in a strange place thing," Catherine admitted. "Would you gentlemen mind if I didn't join you?"

"Don't worry about them, dear," Grandma patted her hand. "We'll let them do their thing and, once you've had a short sleep, you and I can have some girl time together."

---F-A-B---

The day was warm, the breeze refreshing and the seas inviting as the Tracy men pushed Gordon in his wheelchair down the path to the golden beach.

"You know," Alan commented, as they drew close to the shore, "I think I could get to like living here."

"It's a bit slower than your racetrack," Virgil pointed out. "Are you sure you're not going to get bored?"

Alan grinned. "Once we're fully operational I don't think I'm going to get the chance."

They stopped in the shade of a palm tree and sat on the edge of the path to relax and enjoy the view. In contrast to the surf that had lashed the coastline the day before, today the tide was gently playing on the sands. Trying not to be obvious about it, Virgil watched Gordon to see what reaction his brother was having to being so close to the sea.

The red-head appeared to be more interested in tying knots in a length of string.

"How far behind are we, Scott?" Alan asked. "Have we still got a lot to do to get up to speed?"

"Yep." Scott started ticking the list off his fingers. "We've got to assemble the three 'birds and the auxiliary equipment, finish Three's hangar, commission Five… Install Two's pilot's chute, set up…"

"We know we've got lots to do," Jeff interrupted, "but we're not running to a timetable and we are not going to rush anything. We are going to have to work hard, and we won't be taking any shortcuts. We are not starting operations until I'm convinced that the equipment is ready and that you five are ready. Does everyone understand?"

"Yes."

"Yep."

"Of course."

"Right."

"I want to go down to the water."

This final comment was such a left-field statement no-one did anything except stare at Gordon.

He was staring out to sea.

"What did you say, Gordy?" John asked.

"I want to go down to the water." Not taking his eyes off the Pacific Ocean, Gordon pointed. "Out there. I want to get my feet wet."

"I… don't think that's a good idea at the moment, Son," Jeff said, his secret knowledge of Gordon's fears making him wary. "It'll be difficult to get your wheelchair down the beach. We'll build an off-ramp from this path and take you this afternoon."

"Now!" Gordon turned his head to face his father. "I want to go down there now!" He slapped the armrest on his 'chair for emphasis.

"Wouldn't it be better if we waited until Catherine…?"

"Now! I don't want to wait!"

The Tracys glanced uneasily at each other. Gordon was becoming agitated and sounding uncharacteristically petulant. He wanted to go to the water's edge and he was determined to go there this very minute!

"I need to get my feet wet now," he reiterated. "Not later. Not this evening. Now!"

Worried, Virgil reached out and placed a hand on his brother's knee. "Gord…?" He stopped, shocked, when the invalid looked at him. Gordon's eyes revealed the same terrified resolve that he'd shown when he was being lowered into the pool one month ago.

Suddenly it all became clear and Virgil knew why this was so important for his brother. Gordon's demons were out in that ocean and he was determined to stamp all over them…

…Or at least wade through them.

"Okay," Virgil agreed, and stood. "We'll take you down there now."

"Virgil…" Jeff began and Virgil looked at him, hoping to transmit the message that he understood why this was necessary and offering a silent plea for their father to agree.

Somehow, Jeff understood. "Very well. But let's get your helmet first, Gordon. You don't want to risk bumping your head." He stood, brushing sand off his pants. "I'll be back soon."

Virgil gave Gordon's shoulder a squeeze, thinking that he'd be satisfied, and then sat back down.

But Gordon wasn't satisfied. "I don't want to wait."

"It'll only be for a few minutes," Scott soothed. "He'll be back soon."

"No." Gordon shook his head. "He'll get caught up with something else. A phone call, or else he'll see something that needs doing. I'm not waiting. I'm going down there now." He pointed down the beach and looked at Virgil expectantly.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Virgil said. "Not without some protection for your head."

"I don't need protection." Gordon started inching towards the edge of his seat. "My skull's had a month to heal."

Scott placed a restraining hand on his younger sibling's shoulder. "Don't do that."

"Don't try to stop me, Scott. I'm going to touch that water now if I have to crawl there."

"Gordon," John protested. "You can't."

"Just watch me."

"Hold on..." Virgil gave a reluctant sigh and got to his feet again. "Grab his other side, Alan."

"Huh!" Alan stared at him.

"You heard him, Alan." Gordon held out his arm. "Help me up."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Alan was still looking at Virgil for guidance.

"No. But I think it's better than letting him hurt himself trying to crawl to the water." Virgil let Gordon put an arm about his shoulders. "Are you ready, Alan?"

"Ready."

"Are you sure about this, Gordon?"

Gordon gave a determined nod; his eyes fixed on the white froth at the water's edge. "I'm sure."

They got him to his feet and began their slow, shaky trek over the palm trees' roots and fallen fronds. Once they reached the relative smoothness of the beach, Gordon released his grip on Alan, preferring to rely solely on Virgil for support.

Alan, clearly wondering if he should insist on being allowed to help, fell by the wayside before dropping back to where Scott and John were carrying the wheelchair between them. "Are we doing the right thing? What if he falls over and hits his head?"

"I don't know, Alan," Scott admitted. "But I don't think we've got a hope in Hades of stopping Gordon from getting to the water. Better that he lets us help than tries to do it by himself. Just keep close by in case he falls and Virgil can't hold him."

About halfway to the lapping tide Virgil stopped. "Do you want to have a breather? We could take off our shoes here."

Gordon hesitated, as if he was in two minds about the idea. Then he gave a slow nod. Virgil helped lower him into the 'chair and then stretched before kicking off his footwear.

"Do you want a hand, Gordon?" Alan asked.

"Please…" Gordon nodded again. "If I try to get down there to take 'em off, I'll never be able to sit up again. My back muscles aren't strong enough yet."

"Okay," Alan squatted on the sand. "Give me your right foot…" He removed a shoe and rolled his brother's trouser leg up to reveal a skeletal limb. Without a comment he placed Gordon's foot back on the sands and removed the left shoe.

"Where's Dad? He should be back by now…" John looked up towards the house. "He must have got sidetracked."

"I'm ready." Gordon held his arm out to Virgil again. "Let's go."

Virgil hesitated. "Are you sure you don't want to wait? One of us could run up to the house to see what's keeping him."

"No. I need to do this now."

"Okay." Virgil let Gordon place his arm about his shoulders and the assisted the invalid to his feet. "We'll take this at your pace."

It was a slow progression towards the water's edge.

Inches away from the margin where the sand was damp from the ebbing tide, they stopped. "Are you okay?" Virgil asked.

"Yes." Gordon's voice was tight. "We won't go out too far... Just up to our ankles."

"Understood."

Gordon took a shuddering breath. "Don't let me go."

"I haven't let you go so far."

Gordon finally looked away from the Pacific Ocean and at his brother. "No..." and he favoured Virgil with a half-smile. "You haven't, have you." He gave Virgil's shoulder a light squeeze.

We don't have to do this now. You've got this far today; you can go a step further tomorrow."

"No." Gordon squared his jaw defiantly and faced the ocean again. "The longer I leave it, the harder it'll be."

It was the closest he had come to an open admission of his fears.

"I've got a good grip and you're not going to fall." Virgil adjusted his hold on his brother's belt. "We'll take this slowly, just baby steps... and if you want to get out in a hurry, I'll pick you up and carry you."

There was a slight chuckle from the man beside him. "You wouldn't find that too difficult at the moment."

"At the moment, no," Virgil conceded. "But once you're back to full fitness and have re-grown all your muscles, I'll need a front-end loader."

This time he was treated to a wry grin. "Coming from you, that was funny..." Gordon stared down his nemesis again. "Right! Let's do it...!"

Virgil waited for Gordon to make the first step.

Gordon didn't move.

They heard someone move closer. "Gordon..." Scott began.

Virgil waved him back and he was silent.

"Count of five," Gordon suggested. "Five... Four..."

Virgil joined him in his countdown. "Three... Two..."

"One."

They didn't move.

A wave crept closer, kissing the tip of Gordon's foot. He curled his toes up away from it.

"Alan," Virgil looked over his shoulder. "Grab his other side."

"Sure." Glad to help, Alan stepped forward and got a secure hold of his brother. "I've got you now, Gordon. There's no way you're going to fall."

"No chance," Virgil agreed. "And we won't let any more than your ankles get wet, right, Alan?"

"Right."

Gordon took a deep breath. "NOW!" He picked up his right foot, moved it forward so it hovered over the damps sands, hesitated, and then lowered it.

He'd barely shifted his weight, so Virgil didn't follow. "That's a good start," he encouraged. "Now the left one."

Foot up... Forward... Down.

A wave crept around Gordon's toes and then slunk away.

Right foot up... Forward... Down.

Virgil and Alan shuffled forward.

Left foot up... Forward... Down.

Their soles were wet.

Right foot up... Forward... Down.

A wave washed over Gordon's toes and he sucked in a breath.

Left foot up... Forward... Down.

Right foot up... Forward... Down.

Left foot up... Forward... Down.

The water was washing around their feet.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

"One more step, Gordon," Virgil encouraged. "One more step and the water will be up to your ankles and then you've reached today's goal."

"Yes," Alan enthused. "Just one more step. You can do it."

"Just..." right foot up... "one..." forward... "more..." down... "step."

The water was up to Gordon's bony ankle.

"Now the left." With noticeably more confidence, Gordon brought his other foot up level with his right. "Yes!" he raised his arms skyward in triumph, a beaming smile on his face. "I did it! I did it!!"

There was applause from behind them. "Fantastic, Gordon," John congratulated. "Really fantastic!"

"I'll say," Scott agreed. "That's one more thing you can check off your list. Father and Grandma are going to be so proud of you."

"And Catherine," John added.

"Yeah, and Catherine. And Mr Millington, and everyone at the Willis."

"And Rick and Diane."

"And everyone at WASP."

"And everyone in the ol' home town."

Gordon had his eyes closed, aglow with a beatific smile as he let the sun's warmth bathe his face. "I did it," he whispered. "I did it."

Still not willing to release his hold on his brother, Virgil gave him a squeeze. "Yes, you did."

"We knew you could," Alan informed him. "Never any doubts, right, Virgil?"

"Right."

Gordon opened his eyes and stared at the ocean, a defiant glint in his eye. "I'll be back, Neptune," he announced to the unseen god of the sea. "There's no way you're gonna keep me out. You're gonna have to learn to share again."

"You tell him," Alan agreed. "You tell him that Gordon Tracy's back."

Gordon laughed.

"Do you want to walk back?" Virgil asked. "Or do you want us to carry you?"

Gordon gave a sigh, reluctant to admit that even that short walk had tired him. "Would you guys mind carrying me?"

Together, Alan and Virgil adjusted their grip so that their hands formed a seat for their brother, then carefully, as if they were holding a cargo of priceless china, they carried him the short distance back to his wheelchair and placed him in it.

"Thanks, Fellas," he said, when he was settled. "I know it seems stupid, but..."

Scott placed his hand on Gordon's shoulder. "It's not stupid, Gordon. You've been through a lot. You're just, literally, finding your feet again."

John crouched down so that he was at Gordon's eye level. "Remember that we've been with you all the way through this, and we're still with you now. If you need our help you only need to ask."

"I'll need your help to get back to the house," Gordon admitted. "I can't wheel the 'chair on the sand."

Scott looked around. "Virgil, grab that bit of driftwood," he ordered. "That long one." He strode off in the other direction and came back with his own piece, slightly shorter, but of a similar thickness. "Stick it through under here, like this..." he threaded the wood under the wheelchair's seat so that one end protruded at the back and the other was sticking out past Gordon's legs. "Good. Now we can grab an end each and carry his Lordship back to the path. Ready... Set... Lift!"

Gordon and his 'chair were so light that it was easy to carry him, potentate-like, back up the beach.

Easy that is, until he started shifting about and complaining. "Ouch! Put me down for a moment!"

They complied. "What's wrong?" Scott asked.

"There's a twig sticking into my butt. Twist your bit of wood around so it's pointing downwards, Alan. It feels like I'm sitting on half a tree!"

Alan crouched down on the sand so he could have a look. "It's not that big."

"I don't have much padding down there," Gordon reminded him.

Alan, with Virgil's help, spun the branch so the twig was pointed downward. "There, is that better?"

Gordon shuffled in his seat. "Much better."

"Good." Scott took hold of his end of a bit of wood. "Keep in step this time... Lift!"

"Stop!"

They let go of their holds. "What is it this time, Gordon?" John asked.

Gordon had a maniacal grin on his face. "Let's have a race."

Everyone stared at him. "A race?" Scott asked. "What kind of race."

"A four-legged race."

"A four-legged race," John echoed. "What do you mean a four-legged race?"

"I mean Virg and me against you three."

"That's four legs against six," Alan reminded him.

"Not if you three tie your legs together..." Gordon reached into a pocket in the 'chair. "I've got this string that I use for tying knots... It helps with my digital dexterity... that's finger movements to you ignoramuses..." He held up two pieces of string. "You three tie your legs together, like a three-legged race, and then you'll be as handicapped as I will be, having to drag Virgil along."

Virgil knew better than to bite at the remark.

Scott took the string and looked at it as if it was something disgusting that the tide had washed up. "So you're saying that the three of us have to tie ourselves together. The two guys on the outside will have their outer legs free, but whoever's in the middle will have their legs tied to the leg beside them."

"Yep."

Scott looked at John and Alan. "What do you think?"

John shrugged. "How far are you planning to run?"

Alan, his competitive instinct surfacing, was keen. "How about to here!?" He ran down the beach and stopped.

"Alan," Scott complained. "We're not running a marathon. Gordon's already had enough exercise today and he won't be able to reach that far." He started tying his left leg to John's right.

"I doubt _we'll_ be able to reach that far," John muttered. "Ow! Not so tight!"

Alan jogged closer. "Here?"

"Closer," Virgil advised.

Face falling, Alan halved the distance again. "Here?"

"That'll do," Gordon called, before his brothers had the chance to reduce the course again. "Help me up, Virgil."

"Here you go," Scott held out the other bit of string to Alan. "Tie yourself to John's other leg."

"Hey!" John exclaimed. "How come I'm in the middle?"

"You're taller."

"Well, in that case let's get some sort of routine established before we start. I don't want to end up looking like the Christmas wishbone."

"Okay," Scott agreed. "Alan and I'll start with our right legs, so you'll be starting with your left. Then we'll take a step with our left legs so you'll be running with your right..."

Askance, John looked at him. "Running?"

"We'll build up to it... Shuffle around, Alan, so we're all facing the same way. Good... How are you two?" Scott looked across towards their opponents. "Ready?"

Virgil let Gordon answer. "Ready, Scott." The red-head grinned. "Prepare to eat our dust... uh, sand... On our marks... Get set... Go!"

It had to be one of the slowest starts in racing history. It took the six-legged monster that was Alan, John, and Scott about seven strides to get set in their routine and start to gain speed. Virgil and Gordon didn't have the same disadvantage, but Gordon, despite all his bravado, was still unable to run any quicker than he could walk.

They were being well outpaced by their opponents when Gordon stumbled and fell. Virgil, trying to protect his brother from harm, wrenched a muscle in his left arm as he landed hard on the sand. Ignoring the pain he scrambled to his knees. "Gordon! Are you all right?!"

Gordon moaned and covered his face.

Virgil leant over him. "Gordon," he repeated. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I-I..." Gordon moaned again. "I-I can't see..." He reached out blindly for his brother. "Where are you, Virgil?"

Virgil felt his stomach drop, his chest contract, his heart race, and his senses seemed to funnel in onto the figure lying on the sand. He felt sick... He felt scared....

All their hard work... Undone in one moment of stupidity...

"Gordon... Don't move... Are you in pain?"

"I..." Gordon's searching hands found Virgil's shoulders. "I..."

Caught off balance as pressure was applied on one side, his wrenched arm unable to hold him, Virgil found himself rolling onto the sand. Gordon, using his brother's momentum for leverage, was suddenly on top of him, straddling his torso. The prankster raised his hands high. "The champion!" he crowed and then collapsed onto the sand next to Virgil, laughing.

Stunned by what had just happened, Virgil lay there for a moment. Then he sat up. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" Gordon laughed. "I'm fine. You looked like you were going to have kittens."

Virgil got to his feet. "You're not hurt?" He stood there, breathing hard and aware that his heart was still pounding in his chest.

"I'm fine," Gordon repeated and held out his hand. "Help me up."

Now that the drama was over, anger was building. "No."

"Aw, come on, Virg. I haven't got any strength left. Help me up... Please."

"No," Virgil repeated. "I don't trust you."

Gordon looked hurt. "I'm not wearing a joy buzzer, if that's what you're worried about." He showed both palms.

"I don't believe you," Virgil seethed. "After all you've been through... After all we've done to help you... To play such a stupid trick..."

"Settle down, Virgil," Gordon soothed, "it was only a joke..."

"A joke? A JOKE! Don't you ever, _EVER_, joke about your health again!" Even more angry, Virgil jammed his finger in the prankster's direction. "You can joke about anything else _BUT_ your health. You can joke about the ocean, you can joke about flying, you can tease me about my art, you can play tricks on us..."

Gordon's face had lit up. "Can I really tease you about your art?"

Disgusted, Virgil turned away and started walking home.

"Virgil?"

Virgil ignored him.

"Virgil!"

Virgil kept on walking. He felt no guilt at leaving Gordon lying on the sands, as he knew that their brothers were still trying to untangle themselves not much further on. Not only that, but their father had finally arrived, mounted on a much duct-taped hoverjet and casting a bewildered look at his furious son as they passed. But Jeff Tracy did not stop to find out what was wrong.

Virgil knew why when he heard running footsteps catch up to him. "Virgil... Virgil, stop..." Scott jogged past and impeded his march back to the villa. "What's wrong?"

"Gordon played a joke on me."

A smile played about Scott's lips. "A joke? You're upset over a joke?"

"Not just any joke! This one was cruel, unfeeling, spiteful, selfish, malicious, heartless..."

"Whoa! Calm down..." Trying to help, Scott placed his hands on Virgil's shoulders and got a shock. "Virgil! You're shaking! What did he do to you?"

Virgil explained what had happened. "He scared me, Scott. I thought I'd undone all the work we'd done. I was frightened that he'd hurt himself again, more seriously; and I thought it was my fault!!"

Scott's face had hardened. "That was not one of his funnier jokes."

"Funny!? There was nothing funny about it!"

"I know, I know," Scott soothed.

"He gave me a fright!"

"I know."

"I thought it was my fault!"

"I know," Scott echoed again. "Now, take a deep breath and calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Virgil raged. "What he did was cruel and..."

"Virgil! Stop!" Scott demanded. "I'm on your side! If he'd done that to me I would have done something more drastic than simply walking away."

"I only walked away because if I hadn't I didn't know what I'd do to him." Virgil rubbed his sore arm and flexed his hand, grimacing as a spasm of pain shot towards his elbow.

Scott saw the gesture. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay." Virgil looked at the limb. "I pulled a muscle when I was trying not to land on him."

"Sick as he is, Gordon needs to be taught a lesson," Scott stated. A sly smile crept onto his face. "Remember that idea we had?"

"Can't I just wring his scrawny neck and be done with it?"

Scott laughed. "No."

"Why not?" Virgil grumped.

"Because if you tried I'd be duty bound to pull you off and then you'd be mad at me as well as him. Besides, he's a sitting duck at the moment, you'd only feel guilty."

"No, I wouldn't"

Scott glanced about. "Quick! They're coming. Can you be patient for about six months?"

"You know me. I'm patient enough to watch paint dry... so long as it's on one of my paintings."

"Good." Scott lowered his voice. "Follow my lead." The pair of them waited until the rest of the party, Jeff driving the hoverjet and Gordon installed on the back, drew level.

Gordon hadn't yet seemed to have grasped the magnitude of his error, although everyone else was looking more sombre. He treated Virgil to a bright smile. "How's my racing partner?"

Virgil glared at him and looked away, holding his sore arm.

"I think you owe Virgil an apology, Gordon," Scott announced. "He pulled a muscle trying to stop you from hurting yourself when you did that stupid stunt."

"Oh..." Gordon lost his smile. "I'm sorry, Virgil. I didn't mean to fall. I lost my footing in the sand and I made up the rest of the joke on the fly." He ducked his head so he could see Virgil's face easier. "No hard feelings, huh?"

Still in a bad mood, Virgil grunted a reply.

"How bad is your arm?" Jeff asked.

"It's nothin'."

"Maybe you should get Catherine to have a look at it," Jeff suggested. "We're not always going to have a trained physio on hand and we may as well make the most of it while we can."

"Give me a hand with this 'chair, Alan, and we'll take it back to the house," John requested, and the pair of them retrieved the now redundant wheelchair, shaking it to remove much of the sand.

The family started a slow trek back towards the villa. "If I remember correctly," Scott began, his forehead creased as if he was trying to drag a memory up from the depths, "you had a sore hand last time you were here, Virg."

Virgil said nothing until he received a surreptitious prod from his brother. Realising that this had to be the lead that Scott was talking about, he agreed. "That's right. That was when I had the infection. I'd only been working at ACE for a week."

"That's right!" Scott exclaimed as if it was all coming back to him. "You flew out here with Lady Penelope and Parker, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Now that," Scott said reverently, "is one beautiful woman."

Virgil had no trouble agreeing with him. "Gorgeous. I wonder if she'd let me paint her."

As if Gordon knew of Scott's plan and was playing along, the red-head nibbled at the bait. "I haven't met her yet. I've either been under water or in bed. What's she like?"

"You've missed a real treat," Scott said. "Be prepared to have your socks knocked off when you do meet her. I think she's already done that to Father."

"I didn't employ Lady Penelope for her looks," Jeff reminded him.

"I know you think she's some hotshot secret agent with black belts in all these different codes," Scott stated, "but I'm not sure that she lives up to the hype." Jeff gave him a sideways look, wondering why his eldest was making such an accusation.

Alan had already met Lady Penelope once. "I know she looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but from what Dad told me she's not someone to be taken lightly. What do you mean by she doesn't live up to the hype?"

"Well... While she was visiting she challenged me to a fight."

Alarmed, John looked at his elder brother. "A fight?"

"Yeah, a duel. It was only a friendly and I took her on just to see what she could do."

"And?" Alan asked.

"I had to go easy on her, of course. You don't go all out when fighting a lady."

"So you won?" John asked.

Scott made a dismissive gesture. "It was a decisive victory."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "It was a very one sided bout," and only just managed to suppress a smirk when he received a glare from the storyteller.

"Remember that when she challenges you guys," Scott advised. "I think that, in all fairness, we can say that you wouldn't have a chance in your present condition, Gordon. But I'd like to see her take you on when you're back at full fitness."

"Yes," Virgil agreed again. "I'm sure you could achieve Scott's result."

They could see the competitive spark light in Gordon's eyes. "I won't be fit enough to take her on any time soon, but..."

"But, when you're one hundred percent, make sure you extend the challenge," Scott advised. "In our game we're going to need to know each other's strengths and weaknesses, and that includes Lady Penelope's. And she'll probably enjoy the challenge. It'll make her feel like she's part of the team. Only make sure we're there to watch. It's sure to be an entertaining bout."

"You want to watch me wipe the floor with her?" Gordon chuckled, unaware that he'd just taken the bait; hook, line and sinker. "No worries. We'll probably all be living here by then anyway."

"Okay, Boys," Jeff warned. "Shop talk over; we're nearly at the house. Come on, Gordon, I'll take you inside. Alan and John; will you give the wheelchair a wash down? We don't want the salt corroding it."

Soon Virgil and Scott were the only ones remaining outside.

Scott turned to his brother. "Well?"

Virgil grinned. "He won't know what hit him."

"Satisfied?"

"It's going to be a long wait, but it'll be worth it."

Scott gave him a light punch on the arm. "Come on. Let's see if we can scrounge some afternoon tea."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

His mind and body worn out by his earlier exertions, Gordon crashed, and his brothers made the most of the free time by preparing the theatre for the evening's entertainment; a video of one of Alan's last races.

Scott stood at the top of the sloping floor and surveyed the room. Like most of the Tracys' future residence it was still in a state of upheaval. The screen had been temporarily rolled out against the wall, but the seating was still stacked off to one side in boxes. "We'll only put out enough chairs for tonight. It doesn't have to be fancy, just comfortable, and that includes ensuring that none of the seats are going to collapse." He opened a box. "Here are some of the seat cushions... How's your wrist?" He looked over at Virgil. "Are you going to be able to work on these?"

"Sure," Virgil agreed. "No problem."

"That was unexpected, wasn't it?" Alan said as he extracted the framework of a chair from its box. "I mean, something's wrong with the world if Gordon's afraid of the water. It's almost like an episode from out of the _Twilight Zone_. If he'd told me he was scared I would have thought he was joking and laughed at him."

"We all would have," Scott conceded. "I still wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

"I felt it," Alan admitted. "He was really shaking. And not only because of the physical effort he was putting into walking. Right, Virgil?"

"Right," Virgil agreed as he fed a bit into his electric drill. "You've got to admire the way he pushed himself into the water."

John grinned. "Does this mean you've forgiven him?"

"It's not funny, John," Virgil growled. "I genuinely thought he'd hurt himself."

"Hey!" John held up a pacifying hand. "I agree that it was a stupid trick and I'm glad he didn't try it out on me, but I'm also glad that he's well enough to behave like an idiot again."

"Talking of behaving like an idiot," Alan began. "Do you think Dad's okay?"

Scott straightened from where he was screwing two pieces together. "Why?"

"He's gone all, um…" Alan was concentrating on assembling his seat so he wasn't looking at his brothers. "Mushy."

"Mushy?"

"Yes."

"How do you mean mushy?" Scott pressed.

"He... ah..." Alan looked embarrassed. "He... gave me a hug this morning and... er..." his voice went quiet and he stuck his head into a box in the pretence of searching for a lost screw. "He said that he loved me," he admitted, his voice hollow.

John laughed. "He's doing the rounds then."

Virgil stared at the body with a box for a head. "I hope you didn't push him away."

"No..." Alan withdrew his head from its confinement. "Has he done it to you too?"

"Yes," John nodded. "He got me Christmas Eve."

"I must have been first then," Virgil said. "I got the treatment when I was leaving the Institute the Wednesday after Gordon's operation."

Scott was following his brothers' conversation like a spectator at a three-sided tennis match. "What do you mean that he gave you a hug and... the other?"

"He's realised that Gordon nearly died without Father telling him how much he loves him," Virgil explained. "And he doesn't want to take the chance that something will happen to one of us." He shrugged. "I told him that he doesn't have to vocalise it, we all know, but if it makes him feel better then it doesn't bother me."

"He hasn't given me a hug." Scott sounded disappointed.

"Don't worry, your turn will come," John chuckled. "He's probably still plucking up the courage... or working out the best way to hogtie you."

"You could always take the initiative," Virgil suggested. "You'd make his day."

"You can't be serious!" Alan exclaimed.

"Why not? It's not like it's a threat to our masculinity or something."

"Yes," John agreed. "He is our father."

"But..." Alan looked between the pair of them. "It doesn't seem natural somehow."

"Only because it's not something we've grown up with," John reminded him.

"He used to give wonderful cuddles," Scott mused, a wistful look on his face.

"Huh?" Alan stared at his eldest brother.

Hugging a cushion, Scott stared out into the middle distance. "He'd wrap his arms right around you and you knew you were safe." He sighed, lost in his memories.

His brothers looked at each other and grinned.

Scott didn't notice. "You knew that he would protect you from all the monsters that roamed the world and that nothing could harm you..." He was pelted with seat cushions. "Hey! Stop it!"

"When was this, Scotty?" John asked; an expression of pure innocence on his face. "Yesterday?"

"No," Scott said, pulling himself up straight. "Just after Ma died." He got to his feet and looked around. "Bother! I've left my drill in my room... I'd better go and get it. You guys keep working; I'll be back soon." He hurried out the door.

The remaining threesome worked on in silence for a short time, continuing to get the theatre into shape...

"Fellas?" Alan was standing by the pile of boxes. He turned to face his brothers and saw them both looking at them. "Didn't Scott say he'd left his drill behind?" He bent down and picked something up. It was a tool box with an identifying blue stripe. "You don't think..." He opened the box and removed a drill.

Virgil looked at John. "He wouldn't. Would he?"

John's eyes were goggling. "I wouldn't have thought so." He placed his drill on the floor. "What did Dad say he was going to do? Work in his study?"

"I think so..."

"Putting these chairs together is thirsty work," Alan lied. "I think I'll go and get a drink."

"Sounds good to me," John agreed. "I think I'll join you."

Virgil flexed his painless left wrist. "Maybe I'll see if Catherine's with Grandma and ask her to take a look at my arm."

With more haste than was necessary for these particular tasks, the three of them ran through the house. They arrived outside their father's study just as the door was opening.

Scott stepped out, a smile on his face, which he lost when he saw his brothers. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Uh... We decided we wanted to get a drink," Alan admitted.

"And Virgil wanted Catherine to look at his arm," John added.

"I don't think I'll bother now," Virgil said. "It only needed a break from work. It feels fine."

"Have you finished in the theatre?" Scott asked.

"No," John shook his head. "We've still got a few seats to assemble."

"Then I'd better find my drill and get down there."

"We found your drill," Alan informed him. "One of the boxes had fallen on it."

"You found it?" Scott appeared taken aback. "Oh... Thanks... I'd better get back to work in that case." The smile, this time with a trace of smugness, crept back onto his face as he walked away, whistling a jaunty tune.

Three brothers stared at each other.

The door opened again and their father, a broad, beaming smile lighting up his face, exited his study. "What are you boys doing here?"

"We... Ah... We were looking for Scott," Virgil stammered.

"I think he was planning on heading back down to the theatre," Jeff recollected. He put his arms about John and Alan's shoulders and reached out to chuck Virgil under the chin. "I'm so glad I've got such great sons. It's going to be wonderful to have all five of you living with me again... I'll see you at dinner." Whistling the same tune Scott had, he wandered away in the direction of the lounge.

John, Virgil and Alan looked at each other. "That," John said with feeling, "was just plain weird."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil was psyching himself up for the tedium of watching a car race, by sitting on the villa's patio, sketching the evening's sunset. Even though it was summer, dusk in this part of the world didn't last as long as it did at home, so he had to work quickly. The rest of the family and their friends, except Gordon, were down on the beach, making the most of their first evening on Tracy Island.

He was so wrapped up in his drawing that at first he didn't realise that he wasn't alone. Gradually he became aware of a low rumble accompanied by a scraping sound. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Gordon was manoeuvring his way through the lounge, using his walking frame for support. As the younger Tracy moved out of the room's shadows and into the sunset's golden light, Virgil could see that the frame was tall enough so that Gordon could walk upright, but the weight wasn't on his arms.

Gordon shuffled out onto the patio and then, groaning slightly, sank into one of the deck chairs. "It's hard to believe that I used to be able to run the length of that beach and not be out of breath at the end."

"It won't be long and you'll be able to do it again," Virgil reminded him.

"I hope so... Did Dad tell you why he took so long getting back to us today?"

"Only that he couldn't find your helmet and then he did his best to disguise bits of the hoverjet with duct tape."

"He had a phone call from Mr Millington to check up on me. He was telling him how great I'm doing... He didn't know that I was behaving like an idiot."

Virgil didn't say anything. Had he spoken he might have been inclined to agree.

Gordon's frame had a basket attached and he lifted the lid and drew out a pastry. "I would have brought you one, but I thought you were down with the others."

"That's okay. I had plenty to eat at dinner," Virgil admitted. "And I've had enough of the beach for one day."

"Oh..." Gordon broke off a crumb from his delicacy and chewed slowly, smiling as the flavours filled his mouth. "I'll tell you one advantage of being crippled," he pinched off another morsel and savoured it. "I can raid Grandma's pantry and you guys will get the blame." He laughed.

Virgil couldn't help smiling. "Are you sure you should be eating that?"

"I'm okay... Mr Millington said that if I keep improving at the rate I am, I'll be able to move here permanently by the end of January."

"Really?" Virgil's grin broadened. "That's great, Gordon, really great."

"Do you think you'll be able to put up with me?"

Virgil chuckled. "I'll do my best."

"And I'll try not to play any practical jokes on you. And I won't joke about my health."

"Good."

"I..." Gordon examined his snack. "At first I couldn't understand why you were so mad with me today... After all it was only a joke."

Virgil grunted and said nothing.

"But then, when I woke up this afternoon and I was lying there thinking about it, I put myself in your shoes."

"And?"

"And... if I'd done to me what I did to you, I would have done more than shout at me. I would have taken me by the scruff of my silly neck and the seat of my pants and I would have thrown me as far as I could out into the water. And I would have left me to deal with my irrational fears by myself."

Virgil said nothing. For Gordon to admit that he was frightened of something was a big deal.

"I've been so wrapped up in my own little world for so long that I haven't considered how hard it's been on everyone else. I should have realised when I saw Dad in the pool. He's lost a lot of weight."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "I noticed that."

"My only excuse is that I think I must still have a screw loose in there," Gordon tapped his head and stopped when Virgil gave him a pointed look. "I know. Don't joke about my health." He took a solemn bite out of the pastry. "I owe you a lot, Virgil. You've helped me through some hard times and I've given you some hard times, and I had to go and repay you like that..." He put his snack on the lid of the basket and fixed his brother with an earnest look. "I'm sorry; really and truly sorry. It was a dumb trick and you had every right to be mad with me."

There wasn't a lot that Virgil could say in reply to what was obviously a heartfelt statement. "Apology accepted."

"Thanks." Gordon picked up his pastry again and pulled off a bite sized lump. "Mmmn. This is great."

"Gordon..." Virgil swung his legs around so that he was facing his brother. "Are you okay... with that?" He swung his arm out in an arc, encompassing the Pacific Ocean that surrounded the island.

"Up here, with solid ground under my feet, I'm fine," Gordon admitted. "I still find watching the tide relaxing... And going to sleep last night, listening to the waves pounding on the rocks was heaven; just like that device John and Scott came up with... But the idea of putting my head under water makes me want to run for the hills..." He gave a rueful chuckle. "Well, it would if I could run."

"I noticed that you went quiet when we crossed the coast yesterday. Are you going to be okay going home?"

"I don't think I'll freak out, but... Yesterday, when I suddenly realised that we were flying over the ocean and there was nothing between me and that great body of water except a tin can and Dad... It gave me the creeps."

"Maybe you should sit in an aisle seat next time?" Virgil suggested.

"I'll be okay," Gordon reassured him. "I made it here all right, didn't I? And since then I've been in the water." He smiled broadly. "I got my feet wet. I'm not going to let my fears beat me." He chuckled. "But I am going to have to quit WASP. You can't have an aquanaut who's scared of the water." He took a big bite out of his dessert and chewed slowly. "...But neither can International Rescue."

"It'll be an excuse, nothing more," Virgil stated. "You'll get your confidence back and once you do, that'll be an extra cover for us. No one will believe that an aquaphobe is capable of operating a submarine."

"I hope so."

"I know so... Gordon..." Virgil began slowly, "if you don't like having your head underwater; how did you cope with that virtual reality box that John and Scott made for you?"

Gordon swallowed his mouthful. "I tried not to use it. But I know how much effort they put into it, so I didn't want to disappoint them. So, I kept my eyes shut and reminding myself that I was lying on my bed and that I wasn't underwater. If they'd somehow made it a total immersion experience, and made it feel as if I were swimming, I would have freaked out big time."

"Have you talked with anyone about this... this...?"

"Phobia? Yes... But I've got to deal with it my way."

"It can't be a phobia, Gordon," Virgil remarked. "If it was there's no way you could have done what you did today. It's more like..." he thought for a moment, trying to find the right words, "extreme respect."

Gordon laughed. "Oh, yes. I'm very _respectful_. I'm going to have to learn to loosen up around old man Neptune again."

"You'll do it. You've never failed at something you've set your mind to yet."

Gordon raised his bun in a salute. "I'll eat to that." He took a huge bite.

Virgil frowned. "Gordon... What have you got there?"

"What this?" Gordon looked at the glazed pastry. "I don't know, but it's delicious... Hey!" he complained when Virgil snatched it from his hand. "Get your own!"

Virgil examined the circular bun, noting that it had appeared to have been made up of a coil of dough. He sniffed it.

"I'm not gonna want to eat it after it's been up your nose!"

Virgil handed it back. "Do you know what this is?"

"No, I don't know" Gordon snatched it back and held his prize protectively. "I just know it's mine."

"That's a cinnamon roll, Gordon."

Gordon's eyes grew round. "A what?"

"A cinnamon roll. You're eating cinnamon! You _hate_ cinnamon!"

"I do, don't I." Gordon stared at the bun, shrugged, and took a big bite.

A slow grin spread across Virgil's face. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"A bigger range of delicious things to eat?"

"No. It means no more special apple pies just for you. You're going to have to share everyone else's. Grandma's going to be pleased."

Gordon looked alarmed. "You're not going to tell her, are you?"

"Just watch me..." Virgil reflected that as satisfying it would be to see a fully fit Gordon being soundly thrashed by Lady Penelope in about six months time, it would infinitely more satisfying to be able to get revenge on the same day. "Next time I see Grandma I'm going to tell her."

"You wouldn't!"

"I would! You still owe me for all those messages you changed on my voicemail!"

Gordon stared at his brother. Then he stared at the cinnamon roll. "I suppose that's fair." He took another bite.

Virgil grinned. "I'm glad you're gonna be okay, Gordon, and I'm glad I've got my co-pilot back. International Rescue is going to need a brave guy like you."

"Brave?" Gordon looked up. "I'm not brave. I can't even think about putting my head under the water without getting a case of the shivers."

"But you're not letting that stop you. To have faced what you faced, and to still be able to face your fears head-on takes courage."

"Maybe..."

"No maybes about it. You must be the bravest man I know, and I'm proud to be able to call you my brother."

"You are?" Gordon looked surprised.

"Yes."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Both men sat in silence for a time, watching the figures playing on the beach and the surf roll in.

The setting sun morphed from orange to red...

"Did you mean it when you said I could tease you about your art?"

"No!"

_To be continued..._


	26. A Quiet Reunion

**26: A Quiet Reunion**

Parola Sands was buzzing with activity. Excited crowds were queuing at the gates and pushing their way towards their prized vantage points.

The Tracys were no exception.

"Excuse me," Jeff apologised as the thermal-insulated bag he was carrying bumped the shoulder of the spectator in the row in front.

"I thought Alan said he was going to get us the best seats," Gordon grumbled as he tried to manoeuvre his crutches sideways between the rows. "I can barely move!" He fell, rather than sat, onto the cushion his father had placed down for him, and tried to stash the crutches out of the way.

"As far as Alan's concerned, these are the best seats." Virgil claimed the place next to his recuperating brother.

"Yeah." Scott gestured out towards the track in front of them. "We're right by the finish line, so we're in the best place to see him win, but we can still catch all the action on the video screens."

Grandma was fiddling with the visual display unit that was positioned on the back of the seat in front of her. "Well, you would be able to if this darn thing worked."

"He's got us the best place to see the sights," John plonked his bag at his feet and sat down, "be deafened by the noise, and sickened by the smells. Doesn't he realise that we'd be happier in a corporate box?" He leant over to see what was wrong with his grandmother's VDU.

"You know how your brother's mind works," Grandma reminded him. "For him racing is a total sensory experience and he wants us to enjoy the full effect… Can you get this thing working?"

"Leave it to me, Grandma." John got out his multipurpose pocketknife and selected the appropriate tool.

Scott sniffed the air. "Talking of _enjoying the full effect_… Can I smell hotdogs?"

"Hotdogs?" Virgil looked around. "There!" He pointed further down the grandstand. "There they are!"

John looked up from where he'd removed the video's screen. "Don't let him get away!"

"Aww…" Gordon moaned. "You're not going to eat them in front of me, are you? You know I'm not allowed them."

But Scott was reaching for his wallet. "Does everyone want one?" He received affirmative sounds in reply. "Grandma?"

"Yes, please, Honey. I can eat it while I'm waiting for John to fix this dratted screen."

"Nearly got it… It's a loose wire." John was twisting two of the offending bits of metal together. "There!" He snapped the screen back into place and looked in satisfaction as the video came to life.

"I'll be right back…" Scott jogged down the steps, returning a short time later with his hands full. "There's yours, Johnny… Grandma… Pass that one along to Virg would you… And that's Father's… And this!" He sat down, "Is mine!" He took a big bite.

Gordon's eyes followed the two, warm, aromatic, tantalising morsels that were passed under his nose. "You guys are mean: do you know that?"

"Everything we've done these last five months," John said swallowing his mouthful, "we've done for you. You could at least let us have this one treat."

"I guess so." Gordon sigh was heavy and spoke volumes about the suffering he was enduring.

"If you're hungry, Gordon…" Jeff was holding his hotdog in one hand as he tried to unzip the insulated bag with the other. He was failing, so Virgil used his free hand to help him. "…then you can have something that Grandma packed for you." He pulled a snack box out of the bag, handed it to Virgil, who in turn gave it to Gordon.

Gordon stared at the plain, uninviting, unappealing, plastic box. "No thanks, maybe later… I guess I'm not hungry now."

"Your grandmother put a lot of thought and effort into packing that lunch," Jeff told him. "You'd better not leave it too long or else you'll hurt her feelings."

Gordon glanced at his grandmother, who was watching him as she wiped the sauce from her hotdog off her fingers. Not wanting to upset her this early in the day, he prised the lid open…

There, lying in pride of place, was a hotdog.

Gordon looked at his father. "What!?"

Jeff grinned. "We checked before we left and your doctor said you could have one. But his orders were that you were only allowed one, so make the most of it!"

"And you're not allowed any onions," John added. "That's on our orders; not the doctor's."

Almost reverently, Gordon lifted the un-nutritious package of fats, oils, salt, and preservatives from out of the box and sniffed it like a fine cigar. "The smell of ambrosia," he said and took a small bite. "Mmmnnn… Food of the gods. Now I know I'm getting better!"

"Virgil…!" A young man dressed in sneakers, jeans, a Team Tracy jacket and hat, and wearing sunglasses was running up the steps towards them. "Virgil! I need you!"

Gordon looked at his brother. "How come we never hear girls saying that?"

Virgil wiped the sprayed bits of bun from off his jeans. "What's wrong, Alan?"

Panting, Alan stopped at the end of the row. "I need your help." He began pushing along the row, treading on a few toes as he went. "_Excuse me_… _Excuse me_… Virgil… _Sorry_… I need... _Excuse me_… you... _Get out of the way, John...! _to come with… Me!"

"Where to?" Virgil asked, as his youngest brother came to a halt in front of him, much to the annoyance of those behind who were trying to catch the start of the first race. "Why?"

"We haven't time!" Alan pulled on Virgil's arm, knocking the people in the row in front. "Sorry," he apologised again at the resultant grumbles.

Virgil pulled free and remained seated. "Take a deep breath and calm down… Now, what's the problem?"

"My mechanics haven't arrived," Alan explained. "Their car was stolen from outside their hotel and they're dealing with the police. They'll be here in time for the race, but they won't have time to check my car over."

"And what do you want me to do?" Aware that people around about were ceasing to be annoyed and were becoming interested in their conversation, Virgil, like his brothers, pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and pulled his hat down further.

"Check my car! That's what I want you to do… C'mon!" Alan pulled at Virgil's arm again. "You won't have to do much. They had everything finalised yesterday. It's just the final check before the race. Please," he begged, ignoring the cameras that were being withdrawn from bags and pointed in his direction. "There's nothing to it. Just check that no bolts have come loose."

"What about me?" Jeff asked. "I could help. I know a thing or two about engines… remember?"

"Sorry, Dad, but only official team members can work on the cars."

"Alan…" Jeff began with the patience of a father who'd had two decades of dealing with five sons. "I _own_ the team." Cameras started clicking.

"Oh…" Alan looked embarrassed. "Sorry, I never think of you as being my boss." He nodded. "Okay, you can come. Two heads are better than one."

"Can I come?" Gordon asked.

"No. You're not a member of the team."

"Awww…" Gordon pouted dramatically. "Surely you can't deny your poor crippled brother the opportunity to see you in action before the start of your biggest race?" Sports buffs started snapping photos again.

Aware that to protest would only waste precious time, Alan sighed. "Okay. But you've got to keep well away from the car!"

"Deal!" Delighted, Gordon started fishing under their legs for his crutches.

Scott pulled them out and stood. "How about if I carry these and you can hang onto me for support," he suggested. "You can have them back when we get on the flat."

Alan folded his arms. "You can't come too!"

"Why not?" Scott asked. "Someone's got to help our poor crippled brother."

Alan threw his hands up in defeat. "What's your excuse, John?"

John indicated the camera around his neck. "For my next book, I'm considering writing your biography and I'll want to get some action shots."

Alan was briefly taken aback and then recognised the explanation for the ruse that it was. "Okay. But don't get in the way!" He began shuffling back along the row. "See you later, Grandma."

"You don't think I'm going to stay here all by myself, do you?"

"Grandma!"

"Don't you want someone to keep your brothers under control?"

Alan decided that that was a need more than a want.

Pleased for the excuse to evacuate the exposed grandstand, the Tracys gathered together their belongings and began the hike down to the secure area that housed all the racing teams and their vehicles.

"I'm sure you won't have anything to worry about," Alan gabbled as they passed through the security checkpoint. "Everything was checked, rechecked, and double-checked yesterday. There's no way that there's anything wrong with the car."

"I'm sure you're right, Alan," Jeff acknowledged. "But you are right in that it's better to be safe than sorry."

At the Team Tracy garage Alan directed them all inside before getting a couple of chairs, which he placed in a corner for Gordon and his grandmother. Then he grabbed a rope.

Gordon gave him a funny look. "Run, Grandma. It's a hostage situation. We're about to be tied up."

"Nope," Alan corrected, "you're about to be corralled… Come on you two," he indicated that John and Scott should stand in the same corner.

Scott held his ground and folded his arms. "Just what do you have planned?"

"Like I said, you're going to be corralled. I'm not taking any chances of losing the championship just because my family had to be nosey. With you guys behind this rope, and that camera," more interested in tying the rope to a fitting, he pointed over his shoulder, "keeping watch on you, then no one will be able to say that you interfered with the car."

"Alan," John said. "I'm a communications expert, Scotty's a flyboy, Gordon's a fish, and Grandma's an old lady..." He was swatted by his grandmother. "Why would we want to interfere with your car? What do we even know about them?"

"They go broom, broom," Gordon told him.

"Oh, yeah! That's right."

"And this end's the front," Scott added.

"Front," John nodded. "Got it."

"Which makes the other end the back."

Alan groaned, pulled the second knot tight, and then went to join his father and Virgil who were checking out the tools. "Haven't you two made a start yet?"

"Not until you give me a hat," Virgil insisted.

Alan pointed to his brother's head. "You've already got one."

"I'm not getting this one dirty," Virgil told him. "And I want to keep my hair clean."

Alan got two Team Tracy hats. "I don't know why you're worrying," he grumbled as he handed Virgil his. "It's never bothered you before."

Jeff put his hat on his head and then rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Right, let's have a look at this engine."

"You're in for a treat," Virgil told him. "She's beautiful." Alan puffed out in pride.

"Scott?" John was already bored and was making use of the lack of action to take in his surroundings. "Does that camera look right to you?"

"What do you mean, John?"

Gordon snickered. "If the lens cap is still on, then I'm starting tunnelling. Are you with me, Grandma?"

"Yes. The soil can go down my bloomers."

"Grandma!"

The bonnet of the car was raised, exposing an expanse of gleaming, highly engineered metal. Jeff stared at it in wonder. "What is it?" he asked his co-mechanic in a stage whisper.

Virgil grinned. "I think it's called an engine?"

"Where do you wind it up?"

"Dad!" Alan whined.

"Sorry, Son. We'll behave from now on. Got that, Virgil?" Jeff pulled on a pair of blue, high-risk, protective gloves.

Virgil took a pair of gloves for himself. "Yes, Sir."

"Boys?" Jeff turned to where his other three sons were trying to work out what made the security camera look so odd, without escaping their confinement. "No more teasing Alan. Okay?"

"At least not until after the race," Gordon clarified. "Right, Dad?"

Jeff nodded. "Right. Go get ready, Alan."

"Okay!" Alan hurried away.

Virgil grabbed the car creeper and a light. "I'll check underneath."

Jeff already had his hands into the heart of the automobile. "Good." The pair of them began to work in earnest and with painstaking care.

Underneath the car, rolling slowly on the car creeper with only the portable light to illuminate where he was working, Virgil traced the pipe that fed the fuel from the tank in the rear of the vehicle to the engine at the front; ensuring that it was securely bolted to the chassis and had no leaks. As he concentrated on the length of metal he became aware of something moving past his peripheral vision. The distraction moved towards the front of the car, disappeared from sight, and then retraced its steps; before turning to begin its journey again...

After the tenth time Virgil pulled himself out from under the vehicle… Right in front of a pair of racing boots. "Alan! Stop pacing! You're putting me off!"

"Oh!" Alan took a step backwards. "Sorry." He retreated around the back of the car and Virgil slid back underneath to resume his inspection of the fuel pipe.

He stopped. Something wasn't quite right. Using a blue-gloved finger he touched what appeared to be a droplet of moisture oozing from the pipe. The mysterious substance proved to be solid, not liquid.

The light from the side of the car darkened again; but this time the legs didn't belong to Alan. "Virgil," speaking in a quiet voice, Jeff got down onto his knees so he could see his son, "would you take a look at something for me?"

With a sinking feeling, Virgil pulled himself out and followed his father around to the front. "What is it?"

"That." Jeff pointed into the engine's innards.

Virgil had to get down low to be able to see what had piqued his father's interest. There, where the fuel pipe met the power unit, was another of those mysterious blobs. "I thought that might be what you'd found."

"There's some under the car too?"

Virgil nodded. "Yes. I've just found one." He fixed his father with an earnest stare. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Jeff's mouth was a grim line. "I'm afraid I do..."

Seeing the two men in close conversation, Alan was quickly at their shoulders. "What's wrong?!"

"Alan..." Jeff turned to face his anxious son. "Go and get Karl."

"What?" Alan looked between his father and brother, and then, knowing better than to question the order, dashed off to get Team Tracy's manager.

"What's wrong?" Scott asked, but before he could receive an answer, Alan had returned with Karl Richards in tow.

"Good to see you, Jeff," Karl greeted the team's owner.

"You might not think so in a moment," Jeff growled. "What's the compound's security like?"

Karl stared at him. "Just the same as at every other track on the circuit. Why?"

"Because Alan's car has been sabotaged."

Alan paled and Karl took a step backwards. "What?"

"If you look in there," just as he had with Virgil, Jeff pointed inside the engine, "can you see what looks like a drop of liquid?"

Alan's head practically disappeared inside his car as he checked out the unknown substance. "Oh, heck!"

When Karl emerged he looked puzzled. "But what is it?"

"I would hazard a guess that it's concresion," Jeff explained.

It was Karl's turn to pale. "Concresion?! Jeff! This is serious!"

"I know. I think we'd better have a word with the scrutineers and security."

"Virgil!" Scott called him over. "What's going on? Did I hear right? Concresion?"

Virgil nodded. "Yes. Someone's fed it into the fuel pipe."

"I don't understand," Grandma said. "What's concresion?"

"It's a sealant. It's usually used for repairing breaches in tanks and fuel lines. Upon exposure to some catalysts it hardens. The fuel in Alan's car is one of those catalysts. Oxygen is another. The usual method of application is to spray it into the tank and then to follow up with a high pressured blast of oxygen. This forces the concresion against the interior surface of the tank and cures it, sealing the fissure. I would assume that whoever fed in the concresion didn't bother with the oxygen curing and has left it to clog the system."

"But what does this mean for Alan?" Grandma looked over to where members of the Parola Sands security force were talking to Jeff, Alan and Karl.

Virgil was sure that his answer wouldn't come as a surprise to his brothers. "It means that Alan's out of the race. At best, the whole unit could seize when we gave the engine a test run in here. If that happened there's no way we could replace it before the race."

"And at worst?" Grandma asked.

"At worst..." Virgil's blood ran cold as he imagined the scenario. "At worst, Alan would get to the start line without anyone realising that anything was wrong. He'd floor the accelerator and the engine would explode, triggering a chain reaction with the other cars on the track, causing widespread, catastrophic damage. Lot of people would be badly injured or worse. Both as a direct result of the initial explosions, and then in the panic that would follow."

She looked at him, not wanting to believe what she was hearing. "You're exaggerating, Virgil. You've been imagining rescue scenarios for too long."

"He's not exaggerating, Grandma," Scott informed her. "That's precisely what could happen. The initial explosion would be big enough to take out the grandstand that we were sitting in. People in there wouldn't have a chance. And the flaming debris would fly everywhere, setting off other fires. It would be a major disaster."

"So the stolen car was an excuse to make sure that Alan's car wasn't checked before the race?"

Scott nodded. "I would assume so. It's too big a coincidence otherwise."

"That explains something else," John muttered. "Dad!"

Jeff looked over to where his family was held 'captive'. "What, John?"

"We thought there was something odd about that security camera. It's got a false lens on it. I'm guessing that a looped picture of the deserted bay was being projected into the security room, while whoever did this went to work."

Jeff looked up at the camera. "Okay, Everyone. It's time to leave. Don't touch anything on your way out... And leave our gear," he advised when his mother went to pick up a bag. "The authorities will need to check everything to make sure there's nothing suspicious in there."

Grandma put her hands on her hips. "Are you suggesting that the authorities would think that I would harm my own grandson, Jefferson?"

"Of course not, Mother. But we can't take the risk that whoever did this is able to get away on a technicality. We'll get our things back soon enough." Everyone filed out into the bright sunlight to be greeted by more security men and the police.

A frazzled looking man, the World Championship co-ordinator, met them. "Tell me this isn't happening, Karl."

"I'm sorry, Rodriguez, but Team Tracy are going to have to withdraw from the race."

"It's not only Team Tracy," Rodriguez said. "We're going to have to shut down the whole meet. We can't take the chance that other teams have been sabotaged as well. I'm calling a meeting of all officials and drivers in five minutes. Will you attend?"

"Of course," Jeff agreed, "so long as the investigators are willing to release us."

Once they'd promised not to leave the grounds, the three of them, Alan hard on their heels, hurried away, leaving the rest of the Tracys to be interviewed.

"The mob's getting restless," John commented, as sounds of discontent filtered down to the teams' area.

"They're waiting for the next race," a policeman told him. "What they don't know yet, is that there's not going to be one."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the tannoy announced, "we regret to inform you that the remainder of today's races have been cancelled."

There was a chorus of boos.

"They know now," Gordon remarked, as the boos and catcalls increased in volume. "And if they'd only shut up they'd realise why."

The bodiless announcer had to repeat three times that the meet had been cancelled due to unspecified safety concerns, before the crowd quietened down enough to hear him. As the Tracys were led to the makeshift interview area, set up under one of the grandstands, they could hear grumbles of complaint and demands for compensation from most of those leaving.

"Someone's going to be out of pocket," Scott commented.

"I hope their insurance will cover them," Grandma added, before being escorted into a room by a solicitous policewoman.

It was a full hour before Virgil was released from questioning. Being one of those who had found the concresion, the investigators were more than interested in knowing everything that he had done prior to, during, and after his examination of the car.

When he finally stepped back outside, he was met by his family.

"You took so long we were expecting you to come out in handcuffs," Gordon told him. "Did they tell you anything of interest?"

"No," Virgil shook his head. "I got the impression that they're leaning towards someone who wanted Alan out of the race rather than someone out to cause wholesale carnage."

"A competitor?" John suggested.

"Either that or someone who's bet against him winning the series," Scott agreed.

"Are Father and Alan out of their meeting yet?" Virgil asked.

"They're out of the competitors debriefing," his grandmother informed him, "now they're being interviewed by the police."

"Now what do we do?" John asked. "I suppose we've got to hang around and wait until the investigators are sure that they don't need us any more."

"And we've got to get our things," Scott reminded him. "The guy interviewing you didn't mention them, did he, Virg?"

Virgil shook his head. "No."

"I wonder how Alan's feeling," Gordon mused. "The poor guy's been psyching himself up for this final race for weeks. And now he's going to have to go through it all again."

"If he's got any brains he'll keep reminding himself that Virgil and Dad saved his life," John remarked.

Grandma agreed with his sentiment. "And that everyone else is in the same predicament."

"Except that _everyone else_ didn't have someone break into their garage and damage their car," Scott pointed out.

"Maybe they did?" Virgil suggested. "It might not be public knowledge yet."

"I can't believe that anyone would willingly endanger lives…" Grandma exclaimed, "just for a car race!"

Scott gave a _what can you do_ shrug. "People do a lot of strange things for strange reasons." He looked at his watch. "Let's see if we can find someone in authority and at least get our things back."

"You go on without me," Grandma suggested. "I've got to powder my nose. I'll meet you…" she thought briefly. "At the team compounds' entry gate. I'll try and find Alan and your father."

"Okay, Grandma," Scott agreed. "When you see them, tell them that we, hopefully, won't be long."

The brothers waited outside the interview area until the policewoman who'd interviewed Mrs Tracy came out. She listened to their request and then spoke into her radio. When she'd finished her conversation she smiled at them. "Your belongings have been examined and are being held in the adjudicator's office… Up there..." She pointed to the top floor of a two-storey building. "You are welcome to claim them when you wish."

"Thanks," Scott acknowledged. "C'mon, fellas."

They were halfway across the compound when they realised that Gordon's steps were getting slower. "Are you all right?" Scott asked.

Gordon came to a halt. "Yeah… Just getting a bit tired, that's all. It's turning into a long day. He gestured to a nearby bench. "You guys go on ahead and I'll catch up."

Scott frowned. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm sure, Scott." Wincing slightly, Gordon eased himself onto the bench.

"One of us could stay with you."

"No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Scott!" Gordon was beginning to sound exasperated. "I don't need babysitting! I'll have a couple of minutes rest and then I'll follow you."

Scott thought for a millisecond. "How about if we go and get the gear, and meet you back here? We'll only be gone five minutes."

"Fine," Gordon grumbled. "Do that if it'll make you happy."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Gordon snapped. "Will you guys get him out of here before he embarrasses us all by laying an egg!?"

Scott stared at him. "Huh?"

John chuckled. "Come on, Clara. Let him have some peace." He looped his arm through Scott's and started dragging his elder brother backwards.

Virgil, ignoring Scott's protests at the indignity of his treatment, grabbed his other arm and helped to guide him towards the two-storey building. "He's not an invalid any more, Scott."

"He's not one hundred percent, either."

"He knows that. That's why he's trying to not overdo it."

"Gordon knows his limits," John stated. "He doesn't need us smothering him."

It took longer than Scott's promised five minutes to claim the family's belongings and by the time they'd exited the building the crowds had thinned out. "There'll be a lot of disappointed people today," Scott commented.

"None more so than Alan," Virgil added. "The only bright spot is that everyone else is in the same boat."

"I wonder if Gomez had anything to do with it?" John mused. "He doesn't like losing and Alan's his only threat."

Scott shifted the lunch bag so it was more comfortable. "He gives me the impression that he's the kind of guy with few scruples when it comes to racing."

"But, if it was him, he was risking his own neck too," Virgil reminded them. "From what I could tell, whoever he saboteurs were, they didn't worry about limiting the damage."

John spied one of the stall holders that hadn't started packing up. "Cotton candy!" he exclaimed. "Here. Hold this." He shoved one of his bags into Virgil's already full arms and dropped another onto Scott's feet. "Be right back." When he returned he was happily carrying a bag of pink spun sugar.

"How do you manage to have such a sweet tooth and still stay skinny as a rake?" Virgil demanded.

John shrugged and reclaimed his quota of the family's belongings. "Just lucky, I guess."

Scott scanned the few people remaining at the track; almost hopeful that he could spot the saboteur himself. Instead he spied someone else of interest. "Well, well, well; she made it. Alan's in for a big surprise."

John frowned. "Who made it?"

Scott grinned. "See that couple over there by the Parola Sands sign…" He pointed, awkwardly because of the bags, towards the pair in question. The man was tall, dark, and Caucasian. The woman: slim, attractive, and of Asian descent. "Recognise her?"

John and Virgil stopped, glad of an excuse to rest their bags on the ground. "Ah… No…?"John said. "I'm sure I'd remember a beauty like her."

"Yes…" Virgil breathed. "She's gorg…" Something clicked in his brain at the same time as realisation dawned in John's. "Tin-Tin!?"

"Holy cow!" John exclaimed. "It can't be!"

When Tin-Tin Kyrano had left to further her education, she had been a demure little Asian girl, conservative in her clothes and manner. Now her dress style reflected both sides of her ancestry. Her sunglasses were fashionably dark and overly large. The material of her costume was Oriental in pattern, but the style was definitely western. Her skirt was short, revealing shapely legs covered by figure-hugging tights. The scarf wrapped around her slender neck, was a concession to the cold, but failed to hide the fact that her blouse was cut low, revealing...

Virgil turned to Scott. "You were right. She has grown up."

Scott smirked at his brothers' dumbstruck reactions. "Told you so."

John was still goggling at the young woman whom he'd always regarded as his little sister. "I thought it was boys who were supposed to be late developers. How come we never realised?"

"Maybe we were late developing an interest," Virgil suggested. "So we didn't notice that she was, ah, developing?"

All the time they were talking, Tin-Tin had appeared to be holding a casual conversation with her associate, occasionally glancing around as if she were looking for someone.

It turned out that she was. With a joyful squeal she ran towards the Tracys, throwing her arms around the eldest's neck. "Scott!" Then John was treated to the same embrace. "John!" Virgil was the last to find himself wrapped up in a floral perfume. "Virgil...! It is wonderful to see you all again!"

"It's great to see you too, Tin-Tin," John agreed, and she was the only one oblivious to the dual meaning of his statement.

Scott wasn't quite managing to keep his smirk under control. "The guys and I were just discussing how some things have changed since they last saw you."

"A lot of things," she agreed, totally misunderstanding his insinuation.

Virgil decided to move into safer territory. "Are you in the States for long?"

"No. I have only one day free before I have got to start studying for my exams… Eddie," she indicated her friend, who didn't look happy at being deserted for three handsome young men, "and I have got to be back in England tomorrow… How is Gordon?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Scott indicated the loan figure sitting on the bench, absorbed by the patterns he was drawing in the dust with one of his crutches. "He's over there."

Tin-Tin let out another squeal of delight. "Gordon!"

Gordon looked up just in time to be tackled without seeing who his assailant was. "Ah… Hi…?"

Tin-Tin took a step backward so she could examine him. "It is so wonderful to see you sitting here. I've been so worried about you."

"Um… Thanks…Uh…" Gordon squinted against the sun that silhouetted her profile, before, still mystified as to her identity, he looked mutely to his brothers for help.

For once they took pity on him. Virgil, offering the best non-verbal clue he could think of, pointed to a piece of metal. Scott, also trying not to gain Tin-Tin's attention, appeared to be signalling time-out, while John, for some obscure reason, was indicating his candy floss.

"T…?" Still mystified, Gordon tried to make sense of their charades, finding Scott's the most helpful. "Um… T…? Ah… T-Tin-Tin...!" He stared at the silhouette standing in front of him. "Tin-Tin…? Is that you...? Sorry, Honey," he gave an apologetic laugh. "The old brain's still not working properly." He gave an 'involuntary' twitch. "I think they've left a nanobot in there and it's trying to find its way out." He flinched again twice. "It keeps on touching something it shouldn't and short circuiting my synapses." The 'tic' flinched again.

"Oh!" Tin-Tin's hand had flown to her mouth. "But I thought you were nearly better!"

"It's okay," Gordon reassured her. "They're going to use a magnet to suck it out through my ear."

Tin-Tin hesitated as she considered what he'd said; and then she laughed. "You are still a tease, Gordon. I am relieved that you have not changed."

"And I've just broken rule number one," he gave an abashed grin. "No joking about my health." Leaving his crutches propped against the bench, he got to his feet. "Let me have a good look at you, Honey, I can't see you properly with the sun behind you." He twisted her around so that the light was better and then held his arms open. "You're looking fantastic. How about a proper hug this time?"

"It would be my pleasure."

"And mine," Gordon said, before adding to his double-entendre. "You don't know how good it feels to be able to put my arms around you," He looked over her shoulder at his brothers and opened his eyes wide. _Wow_, he mouthed.

"Tin-Tin doesn't want you hanging off her," Scott rebuked. "Leave her alone, Gordon."

"Awww. But I've never had so much fun at a racetrack." Gordon released his hold of their friend.

When he had reclaimed his seat, Tin-Tin sat beside him and took his hand. "I am sorry that I did not visit you while you were in hospital. I tried, but whenever I had a spare day something would happen. My flight would be fogged in, or my tutor would arrange extra lessons, or…"

Gordon held up his free hand. "It's okay," he said. "I wouldn't have wanted you to see me like that anyway. If you think I'm skinny now, you should have seen me when I was paralysed. It wasn't a good look, was it, Fellas?"

They refrained from nodding.

"But knowing that you were there in spirit helped." Gordon squeezed Tin-Tin's hand. "So thanks... How long are you here for?"

"Only today," she admitted. "But I thought, if nothing else, I had to try to see Alan's final race. I am disappointed that it has been called off. Do you know why?"

"Yes," Virgil scowled. "Someone sabotaged Alan's car."

Tin-Tin showed more than a little alarm at his pronouncement. "Someone did what!"

"Sabotaged his car," John clarified. "They've shut down the meet for safety reasons."

"Oh, dear. Poor Alan," Tin-Tin exclaimed. "Ah…" she tried to appear casual, "I suppose he's still busy with officials and I won't get the opportunity to see him."

"Probably…" Gordon began.

But Scott pointed to the other side of the open area. "There he is."

"Where?" Tin-Tin looked over to where he was pointing. Spying the young man wearing jeans, and the ubiquitous Team Tracy hat, jacket and sunglasses, she let out her third squeal of the day. "Alan!" Forgetting all pretence, and deserting the rest of the Tracys, she ran over to the race car driver with her arms outstretched. Alan was stopped in his tracks by the flying embrace. "Oh, Alan! I'm so pleased to see you!"

"Uh... Hi...?"

Preparing to join the couple, Gordon gathered together his crutches and stood, glaring at his older brothers. "You could have given me fair warning who she was."

"We did try," Scott reminded him. "We didn't even know she was here today."

"If you couldn't follow our clues, then that's not our fault," John said.

"Okay," Gordon grumped. "I can see that you were telling me her initials," he pointed to Scott, "and you," he indicated Virgil, "were pointing to a piece of tin, but," he stared John down. "What on earth were you doing?"

John held up his candy. "You know Tin-Tin means sweet."

"Great," Gordon growled. "Only you would try to give me a clue in another language."

Virgil was watching the way Alan and Tin-Tin were interacting with each other. Tin-Tin was doing all the talking; her arms moving animatedly; while Alan had his folded as barrier against her advances. "He hasn't got a clue who she is."

Gordon started his slow walk towards the couple. "After the day he's had, it would be cruel not to let him in on the secret…" He shared a sly grin with his brothers. "That's not going to stop us though, is it?"

During the years they had been growing up together, Alan and Tin-Tin had been practically inseparable, leading Grandma Tracy to dream of a grand white wedding and great-grandchildren. But when Alan left home to pursue his education and then his goal of becoming the best race car driver in the world, he lost touch with his childhood friend. His brothers, maybe with dreams of their own that one day Tin-Tin would be a sister in a more legally recognised sense, had been disgusted with the way that he'd ignored her letters and emails.

"Yes," Scott agreed. "That would be cruel... Mind you, if he doesn't ask who she is, then I guess it's safe," he smirked, "to assume that he knows."

"I couldn't give him a clue anyway," John said, throwing his candy's bag into a rubbish bin.

From what they could see of Alan's face behind his dark glasses, he had the expression of a rabbit stuck in headlights. He cast a frantic 'help-me' look to his brothers.

They ignored it.

"I was just asking Alan if they knew who the saboteur is," Tin-Tin explained.

"Uh…" Alan decided that even if he didn't have a clue who he was talking to he'd better be civil. "Not yet. The inspectors are examining the car and my garage now…"

"How did they sabotage your car?" Tin-Tin asked. "Did they damage the engine?"

"Ah, kinda… Someone put some stuff into it that blocked it."

Virgil, knowing that Tin-Tin had spent the last few years at an engineering school of the same calibre as Denver, expanded on the explanation. "Alan's mechanics were held up…"

"Conveniently," John interjected.

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "So Alan got Father and me to do the final checks on his car. We discovered that someone had injected concresion into the fuel line."

"Concresion?!" Tin-Tin looked horrified. "But you could have been killed, Alan!"

"Ah, yeah…"

Tin-Tin turned back to Virgil. "Did they inject the concresion only into the fuel line or the engine as well?"

"From what we saw, it was both," Virgil admitted. "But I don't know for sure. As soon as we knew something was wrong we backed away. We didn't want to risk destroying any evidence."

Tin-Tin nodded wisely. "Such as tooling marks… So you think someone was hoping to cause the motor to seize, or do you think they were aiming for an explosion?"

"We'll have to wait to see the final report into the incident. The sloppy way that it had been injected into the system; there were drops on the external manifolds; makes me think that they didn't care what the final result was. They just wanted to make sure that Alan wasn't going to take part in the race."

"And what about security?" Tin-Tin asked. "Surely they saw something?"

"The miscreants tampered with the security camera," John explained. "They put a looped feed through the circuit."

"So it was planned, not a random attack."

"Looks like it," Scott agreed. "Someone wanted Alan out of the way badly enough to endanger lives."

"But who could that be? A competitor?"

"The only one who'd really gain anything from Alan pulling out would be Victor Gomez. The third placed guy would get more points, but he's got no chance of winning the series."

"What if Gomez was eliminated too? That would move third into first, wouldn't it?"

"No. With Alan and Gomez neck-and-neck in the standings at the moment, they're so far out in front that, even if neither of them could compete in the final race, they'd both win on points."

Alan, astounded that this attractive young woman had no problems grappling with such technical issues, had been following the exchange with an expression like that of a stunned mullet. It was obvious that he still had no idea who they were talking to, and his brothers tried, with little success, to hide their smirks.

Jeff Tracy and his mother strode over. "Ah," he beamed. "So you made it! Good to see you, Honey."

Tin-Tin treated both the elder Tracys to a hug. "And you, Mr Tracy… Hello, Mrs Tracy. The boys have just been explaining to me what happened to Alan's car."

Trying to wrestle back some control of the situation, Alan asked: "Have you finished your interviews, Dad?"

"For the moment," Jeff replied. "They might need to talk to us again later on, Virgil."

"Okay."

"Are they going to reschedule the race?" Tin-Tin enquired. "Or will they leave the final results as they stand?"

Alan suddenly realised that he was able to add something constructive to the conversation. "They're going to run the final race here next Saturday… Ah… Are you going to be able to make it or will you be too busy?" he added, hoping for a hint as to who this attractive, intelligent woman, hiding behind her sunglasses, was.

"No. I'm afraid that I won't be free." Tin-Tin sounded disappointed. "And with the differences in time-zones I won't be able to watch the race live. I shall have to record it… But I'll be cheering you on the entire time, Alan!" She grasped his hands in excitement and he looked as though he didn't know whether hang on or let go. "Just like I've always done."

"It must be nice to have such a staunch fan, Alan," Gordon said, somehow managing to not sound sarcastic. "Someone who's followed your career every step of the way."

"Er…" Alan prevaricated, "yeah."

Eddie waved at Tin-Tin and she waved back. "I've got to go. Eddie's waiting for me. It's been wonderful to see you all again."

"And you, Honey," Virgil agreed.

"Don't make it so long next time," John added.

"If you ever need a lift, just give me a call," Scott offered.

"Thank you… Good luck with the race, Alan."

"Uh… Thanks, ah..."

"Take care, Gordon." Gordon received an extra long hug. "I'm so pleased to see that you are so well."

Gordon grinned. "Not as pleased as I am."

With a final "bye" Tin-Tin hurried back to her friend. Alan watched her go and scowled when Eddie placed his arm about the young woman's waist before guiding her away. He turned back to the group and found six amused faces starting at him.

"Something wrong, Alan?" Gordon asked.

"All right," Alan grumped. "Who was she?"

"Who was she?" Scott pretended to be surprised by the question. "Don't tell me you didn't recognise her."

"But I couldn't see her behind those glasses!"

"Then why didn't you take them off?" Gordon asked.

"Not mine. Hers! Who was she?"

"How could you forget a beauty like that?" John exclaimed.

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "Beauty and brains. Now that's what I call the total package."

Gordon looked over to where the couple had been standing moments before. "I wonder if she and Eddie are a item, or if she's available."

"A girl like that's bound to have suitors all round the world," Scott said. "We'd have to join the queue."

"I'm first in line," John said.

"Behind me... She's bound to prefer someone who has similar interests," Virgil pointed out.

"Like you?" John scoffed.

"Yep."

"That doesn't necessarily tally, does it?" Scott enquired. "What about Lisa and Butch Crump?"

"Now _they_ are an odd couple," Gordon agreed. "But I suppose they do have engineering in common." He looked reflective. "If I remember correctly she used to _love_ swimming."

Scott gave a knowing nod. "That's right, she did. And flying."

Alan was following their conversation, getting more and more frustrated with his brothers' playful banter. "But _who_ was she?"

"Alan!" Grandma scolded. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the little girl you proposed to when you were eight."

"I did _what_?"

"That's right," Jeff chuckled. "I'd forgotten that. You gave each other the measles too."

"We _did_?"

"Remember the time they went missing and we had the entire neighbourhood looking for them?" Grandma recollected.

"Including the police," Jeff remembered.

"That's right, we did too. We eventually found the pair of you under the back steps, sound asleep."

"What...?!"

"That's when I boarded them up so the pair of you wouldn't disappear again…"

"Forget the trip down memory lane," Alan snapped. "Who _IS_ she?"

"Tin-Tin Kyrano," his family chorused.

Alan's jaw dropped. "No way…"

"Who else do you know would have such a grasp of engineering, Alan?" Virgil queried.

"And electronics," John added.

"And lives in an inhospitable time zone," Scott reminded him. "That was Tin-Tin."

"No way," Alan repeated. "Boy, she's changed!"

"Bet you wish you'd kept in touch now, Alan," Gordon smirked.

Alan pouted. "I sent her a Christmas card."

"Wow. Big deal."

Alan looked back across the courtyard, a wistful expression on his face. "That was Tin-Tin…?"

_To be continued…_


	27. A Quiet Race Alan

**27: A Quiet Race - Alan**

It was a week later.

Much to everyone's relief, Alan had been unable to secure them the "best" seats for the rescheduled race; and Jeff, pretending to be disappointed, had hired a corporate box for the sole use of the family.

Virgil looked around in approval. The corporate box had been designed to ensure that its occupants would get the maximum pleasure out of their day at the track. The angle of the floor sloped downwards; and the window, stretching the length of the room, looked over the final straight. Above the window, at eyelevel with the seats, were three TV screens all ready to display varying views of the Parola Sands course. Refreshments were on hand and further catering was available at the touch of a button.

"Now this," John said as he collapsed into one of the comfortable chairs, "is the way to watch a car race." He pulled a thick book from out of his bag, propped his feet up on the seat in front, and settled down to read.

"We'll let you know when Alan's race is going to start, shall we?" Scott asked, not attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"Yes, please."

"What are the rest of us meant to do in the meantime?" Gordon enquired. "Since we're not going to have your scintillating company."

John looked at him from over the top of his book. "You should have thought of that before you got here… Grab me a coffee while you're over there would you, Virgil?"

Virgil glared at him. "What did your last slave die of?"

"I hit him with my book for taking too long."

"Don't put your feet on the seats, John," Grandma scolded, swatting the offending limbs. "People have got to sit there. They don't want to sit on what your dirty shoes leave behind."

Ever obedient to his grandmother's wishes, John pulled a paper from out of his bag and put it under his feet.

But her grandson wasn't the only person in Grandma's sights. Much to his mother's disgust, Jeff was entering something into his electronic personal digital assistant. "And you can put that down too! You are not here to work!"

He carried on working. "I'm just finalising a few things, Mother."

"Then finalise them tonight. You are here to support your son."

Jeff looked up from his PDA. "And I will do! Alan doesn't race for another," forgetting the time displayed on the PDA, he checked his watch. "Three hours or so."

"Why didn't we arrive two-and-a-half hours later?" Scott asked. "We've already booked the box so we won't lose our seats. It would have saved us three hours of boredom."

John's book spoke. "Because Dad's hoping that he'll be needed to replace a missing mechanic again."

"_That_ I wouldn't mind," Virgil admitted. "I barely had the chance to get my hands on that beautiful piece of machinery last week." He shook his head sadly. "Sacrilege."

"Maybe Alan will let you dissect it when the race is over." Still using his crutches for support, Gordon shuffled over to the TV that showed a couple of sports presenters discussing the upcoming races. "I wonder if it's possible to change the channel on this thing."

Scott checked his own watch. "Come on, fellas. Let's get out of here for a couple of hours. We can be back well before Alan's race…"

The door to the box banged open. "Good!" Alan beamed. "You're all here. I was worried that you might have been held up."

"Nope," Scott said, conveniently forgetting his statement of two seconds earlier. "We wanted to get here in plenty of time to catch the action."

"Talking of getting here…" John had dropped his book into his bag to hide it and sat up. "Have your mechanics made it this time?"

"Yes." Alan mimed wiping his brow. "They slept in the garage to make sure that no one interfered with anything, and I pulled my trailer in closer so that no one could enter the compound without having to scrape along the wall next to my bedroom."

"Cutting off her escape route?" Gordon teased.

Alan poked his tongue out at him.

"Are you satisfied that everything's okay?" Virgil checked. "Your mechanics don't need a hand, do they?"

Gordon had moved away from the TV screen. "Virgil and Dad were hoping to be called up again."

"Sorry," Alan apologised, "but they don't need your help. Everything's running to schedule." Virgil tried not to feel disappointed at the news.

"Well, that's good, Alan," Jeff congratulated. "So it's all down to you now."

"Yep, and I'm feeling great. If I can get in front of Gomez at that first corner, I've got the championship sewn up."

"Don't get too cocky," Scott warned.

"And don't take any risks," his grandmother added. "This is a dangerous track."

"I won't. I'm not going to risk not finishing the race. Not when I'm so close to winning the title."

She smiled at him. "Good boy."

"I'd better get back," Alan admitted. "You're going to love the two lead up races. They've been a dog fight all season." He flipped his family a cheerful wave. "See you when I'm the world title holder."

"Bye, Alan."

"Good luck, Alan."

"Break a leg."

"Show 'em that age and experience isn't everything."

Alan bounded out of the corporate box and the rest of his family resigned themselves to three hours of tedium.

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

"And now we are getting ready for the headline race," the TV burbled. "This is the big one, the one we've all come to see. Who will emerge victorious? Experience: in the form of Victor Gomez? Or raw talent: in the form of young Alan Tracy?"

"Alan, of course," John told the TV screen. "No question."

He, like the rest of the family, had abandoned their other interests and had settled into the seats that looked down over the track. The television screens above the panoramic window allowed them an excellent view of both the action up close and beyond the distant corners of the racecourse.

"Parola Sands," the TV presenter informed the watching public, "is the longest track on the world championship circuit." A map came up on screen. "As you can see this circuit has numerous corners and hairpin bends," an animated car followed the route of the course, "made all the more tricky by the cliffs and sheer rock faces that the drivers must navigate. Places where you can overtake are a rarity and there are some stretches where it's impossible - not without risking life and limb. As yet no one has lost their lives competing in this race, but there have been many instances of serious injury. The most famous incident was…"

"We don't want to hear all that," Grandma complained. "I'm nervous enough as it is."

Eventually the presenter reverted back from his gory history lesson to today's race. "…whoever leads into the first corner at the beginning will probably be the first across the finish line at the end… The cars are lined up and their drivers are making their way to the starting grid. There's Victor Gomez. What a look of determination on his face! As if nothing and no one, not even a young upstart like Tracy, is going to take this title away from him. As we all know, Gomez has strenuously denied any knowledge of the sabotage of Tracy's car that caused the cancellation of last week's races… And there's Langam. No one can be more disappointed than him in the way his season's gone. He started out well, with a second and several thirds, but mechanical failure has… And there's Alan Tracy…!" There was a cheer from the Tracy box. "…Continuing his tradition of wearing his helmet from the pits to his car. It might be winter, but, as usual here in the winterless south, it's hot out there and he must be sweating under that head-bucket."

"Not as much as Gomez," Gordon jeered.

"I don't suppose you brought your lucky charm, did you, Gordon?" Virgil asked.

"Yep. First thing I did this morning was put it in my left shoe."

Scott looked at his younger brother. "I thought you were limping more than usual."

John chuckled. "Some people have a lucky rabbit's foot. We've got a Gordon's."

Gordon pulled the leather pouch from out of his pocket. "Once Alan's won, then it's going back into here and I'm gonna wear it around my neck. There's no way I'm ever going to lose it again."

They had to endure more mindless babble from the TV commentators as they awaited the start of the race.

"Shut up and get on with it," Jeff complained.

"Jeff!" his mother scolded.

"Well," he moaned. "We came here to watch Alan race, not listen to that idiot. We could have done that anywhere."

"Hang on." Gordon leant forward, looking down onto the grid. "I think they're nearly ready."

"About time," Scott muttered. "If you include last week, this has got to be the longest start to a race. Ever!"

After another two minutes of frustration, the lights flashed green and the race was finally under way.

The Tracys were on their feet. "C'mon, Alan!" Jeff yelled. "Beat 'im to that corner!"

"Calm down, Jeff." His mother laid her hand on his arm. "You'll burst a blood ves… He did it!" She squealed and clapped her hands. "He's first!"

"That's my boy!"

Once that initial corner had been successfully negotiated, with Alan narrowly in the lead, the Tracys returned to their seats and sat back to watch the three TV screens. The first showed live action views of the lead cars; the second focused on the lesser placings; and the last displayed the animated map detailing where the cars were on the course, as well as other information.

Alan's car was still in front. Victor Gomez was on his tail. The rest of the field straggled behind.

"How many laps do they have to do?" Virgil asked.

"Ten," Gordon replied. "Alan told me that it takes about thirteen minutes to do one lap of the track."

"So the race'll last just over two hours." John leant forward, craning his neck to maximise his view through the window. "We're not going to be able to see much of the action. Most of it happens on the far side of the track."

"That's what the camera-helijets are for." Scott pointed to the dots in the air in the distance. "They film in the areas where it's impossible to set up a camera on land. There isn't a part of the course that isn't covered; including the cliffs and bluffs that make this course unique."

"I know about those areas," his grandmother huffed. "That's what that reporter was talking about before. _That's_ what makes this course so dangerous. If someone crashed there, by the time help arrived, it could be too late."

"Which is why these cars are some of the safest in any class of motor sport," Jeff reassured her.

"So long as their mechanics are awake enough to find evidence of sabotage."

"After last week, I'd say the chances of something like that happening again would be virtually nil. Security's been stronger than Fort Knox."

"Don't forget," Scott began, "that not all those helijets are for filming. The rescijets are ready to fly in at a moments' notice."

"Bet you'd rather be piloting one of those right now," Gordon teased.

"Yeah…" Scott sighed.

Twelve minutes had passed since the green light. "They're getting close," Virgil commented as he followed his kid brother's progress on the animated screen. "We should be seeing him any time soon."

"There!" Gordon pointed to a cloud of kicked-up sand in the distance. "Here they come!"

The family pressed themselves to the glass as Alan, closely followed by Victor Gomez and the rest of the pack, swept past along the finishing straight.

Excitement over, Scott sat back again. "Well… That's one lap down, nine to go."

Alan may have scored the lead, but that didn't mean that Victor Gomez was going to give up without a fight. He kept on Alan's tail, trying, without success, to either sneak around the front car or else prompt the young Tracy into making a mistake.

Alan was keeping his cool.

"Two laps down," John said as there was the brief burst of excitement in front of the corporate boxes. "Hang in there, Kiddo. Don't do anything stupid."

"He's driving like a seasoned pro. Nothing Gomez is throwing at him is fazing him." Jeff gave a satisfied nod. "Now I know I shan't need to worry about him. He's going to be an asset to the team." In silent agreement, his sons continued to watch the action.

Thirteen minutes later and the cars swept past again. This time they were more spread out and Gomez was still trying, unsuccessfully, to get past Alan. As the Tracys watched the first TV screen, Gomez made to push his nose between Alan and a corner, hoping to coax Alan off his line.

Alan's car fishtailed, throwing up a cloud of Parola Sands' dust.

When the air had cleared he was still in front.

Lap four was completed.

Two of the trailing cars tried to negotiate the same corner at the same time. They crashed out, necessitating the need for the pace car to make its way onto the track; slowing down the race until the debris was cleared away.

Both Alan and Gomez, along with many of the other competitors, took advantage of the delay to have a pit stop; Alan leaving his compound seconds before Gomez and with his lead increased. He soon lost the advantage when he was caught up in some of the tail-enders.

Excitement was building in the Tracy camp. Alan only had five laps between him and winning the world championship.

"Come on," Virgil breathed. "Don't lose it now. You can do it…"

The lead cars flashed past the corporate box. Six laps gone; four remaining.

Gomez, realising that his dreams of winning were fast disappearing, was getting desperate. Pulling up to Alan's bumper he started nudging it, trying to push the younger man off the track just had Alan had done all those months ago.

Alan for his part, kept his nerve and his grip on the car. Every trick that Gomez tried, Alan seemed to have a response. He kept his head and his lead.

Seven laps down.

At the rear of the field, cars were falling by the wayside; some vehicles unable to withstand the punishing track; some drivers finding out the hard way that their skills didn't live up to the circuit's demands; some, overeager to gain a place, pulling reckless manoeuvres that wiped out both them and their opponents.

Away in the distance, as shown by video, a car took a corner too wide. He spun out, the terrified driver only just saved from going over the cliff by the magnetic fence that snared his vehicle. At once a waiting rescijet swooped down; its set of claw-like grabs hanging from its undercarriage. Taking care to avoid the rocky crags that rose above the track, the rescijet clamped the grabs about the car's chassis and lifted it into the air, ready to return it safely to the pits.

"We could do with a setup like that," Gordon commented.

"But we'd need something a bit more flexible," Virgil amended. "These rescijets and their race-grabs are designed to only hold vehicles of the exact weight and length of this class of car. Anything bigger, heavier, shorter, or markedly lighter, and the race-grabs are useless."

Alan and Gomez roared down the home straight for the eighth time.

Only two laps to go. Two laps to decide who would claim the title of World Champion.

Another car narrowly avoided sailing off the edge and into oblivion. Another rescijet plucked it to safety.

Now the lead cars were on the back of the course, far away from prying eyes apart from those viewing through the camera-helijet's pictures. The field was so spread out that those in front were finding themselves becoming entangled by the stragglers.

It was one of those trailing cars that caused the next sensation in the drama. On the back straight, far away from conventional help and with both rescijets tending to previous victims, the unhappy driver caught the wheel of the car in front and sent himself sailing nose over tail against a rocky prominence, where the vehicle burst into flame. His partner-in-tragedy continued racing: either unaware of the magnitude of what had just happened or glad to be finally free of his tail.

"Whoa!" the TV commentator exclaimed. "Number 54 has hit the wall! That's Carlos Estrada and he's in trouble!"

"He's trapped in the car!" his associate yelped. "There's no sign of him!"

"Trapped and with no one able to reach him."

"If his tanks explode he'll take out the entire track!"

"Where're the rescijets?"

"One's dropping off Tisdall as we speak and the other's got Shaw. They've got to stop the race before someone else is put at risk!!"

But no one had told Alan or Gomez that the race was in jeopardy. They turned into the back straight: Alan still in front.

At first it seemed that both drivers were more intent on getting past the blazing vehicle and continuing their race, but then Alan pulled over so his wheels were scuffing the dirt of the cliff face. Gomez, relishing his one and only opportunity to gain the lead, snuck past and raced away.

"What's he doing!?" Grandma yelled; on her feet alongside her family when she saw her grandson pull to a stop, metres in front of what appeared to be a flaming bomb, and then slam his car into reverse.

The TV commentators were asking the same question. "Let's see if we can tap into Team Tracy's radio communications."

Alan's voice sailed out of the TV's speakers as the cameras showed him clambering out of his car. "_…se are they?_"

"_There's a crash_ _two_ _corners back. They can't get through."_

On the TV screen, Alan, still fully clad in is protective racing gear, including his helmet, was running back to the stricken car.

"_What are you doing, Alan?_"

Another car buzzed through.

"_Gotta get Carlos out 'fore car blows._"

Alan had reached the crashed vehicle. He was temporarily beaten back by the flames.

"_Alan! Be careful!_"

"Be careful!" Jeff echoed as he watched his son's heroics on screen.

"_Steerin' wheel jammed._" Alan panted, as he tried to remove the impediment to his rescue.

"Why doesn't someone help him?" Grandma demanded of no one in particular. "What about the camera crew?"

"The camera-helijets aren't set up for rescues," Scott pointed out. "They've got one pilot, one automatic camera, and that's it."

"And nowhere to land," Virgil added.

"There's a fire appliance on the way!" John pointed to the animated map. "Hurry up!!"

"That's miles away," Gordon, like the rest of his family, was on his feet, gripping his crutches tightly, "and it's driving against the flow of traffic. It'll never get there in time!"

Alan had picked up a rock and was pounding the release catch that held the steering wheel in place. "_C'mon… Hang in there, Carlos._"

No one knew if Carlos responded.

Unwatched by most of the world, Victor Gomez crossed the finish line.

At last Alan got the steering wheel free. He threw it down and reached into the cockpit, grasping his fellow driver under the arms. "_Sorry, Pal._" Struggling against the stricken man's weight and where his racing overalls appeared to have snagged on the chassis, he pulled Carlos Estrada out of the car and flung him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift.

Then Alan was racing back towards his own vehicle.

"Run, Alan!" Grandma shrieked.

"What's he going to do with him?" Scott asked. "The car's only built for one."

"_How's he?_" Karl asked Alan.

"_Dunno. Gotta gettim outta here._"

Alan didn't have time to stop and think. Treading the fine line between the twin needs for care and speed, and avoiding the hot engine at the front of his car; he swung the injured man about and draped him across the fuselage behind the driver's seat. Then he jumped back into his own cockpit, reconnected his steering wheel, and gunned the motor into life. At last, with one hand on the wheel and the other across Carlos to support him, Alan Tracy drove away from danger as quickly as he dared.

He'd navigated two corners before one of the rescijets hovered into view and sent a stream of foam onto the fire ravaged car. Keeping pace with Alan, the other rescijet came in to land on a small stretch of track that was free from tail-catching cliffs. Alan eased to a stop and was immediately approached by two paramedics. Carlos was checked where he lay; immobilised, and then manoeuvred off the car, onto a stretcher, and into the rescijet.

Alan returned to the Team Tracy car and, with a sedate crawl back to the pits, completed his final race of the world championship.

Drained after watching the drama, the Tracys flopped back into their seats. "Whew!" John exhaled. "That was amazing! Alan deserves a medal." As his family concurred with this opinion he continued. "If I had any doubts before, which I didn't, I certainly don't have any now. Alan's going to be an asset."

"Yep," Gordon agreed. "If he starts talking about trying for the world championship next year, I say that we tell him that we're not going to let him."

"Right," Virgil concurred. "We'll tell him we want him to be part of the team."

"Never mind 'want'," Scott corrected. "We'll tell him we _need_ him to be part of the team."

Jeff was smiling in pride at his sons' endorsement of their brother's actions. "I'll be sure to let him know."

Virgil looked over at his father. "Can you find out how Carlos is?"

"I'll give them a few minutes," Jeff responded. "The last thing they need at the moment is the owner of a rival team pestering them for information."

"What an afternoon of drama!" the TV burbled. "We are still awaiting reports from Carlos Estrada's team as to his condition after that horrific crash. We will tell you as soon as we have news. We'll also try to do the impossible and get Alan Tracy to give us an interview. In the meantime, here are highlights of today's…"

Gordon found the TV's off switch. "Let's go and find Alan," he suggested.

But there was no need to go searching. They'd no sooner gathered together their belongings when the man of the moment let himself into the corporate box. Virgil noticed that Alan's usual Team Tracy jacket and hat were missing.

"Well," the young man said. "I guess that's that. I missed out on winning the championship… Sorry…"

"Sorry?!" Scott exploded as the family gathered around the youngest member of their clan. "Don't you ever feel sorry about trying to save someone's life! Who cares about the world championship?! What you did for Carlos is much more important…"

"Yes," John agreed. "Much more important. You did great, Kiddo."

"You were awesome," Virgil told him, remembering Alan's words after their plane crash. "A real hero. _That's_ what people will remember of this series. Not who won."

"Definitely," Gordon agreed. "And if anyone says otherwise I'll jab them with my crutches... How is Carlos?"

Alan slumped against the door jamb. "I don't know. He was alive when I rescued him, but with everything I had to do to him to get him out of there…" He sighed. "I suppose I'll find out when everyone else does." He gave his father a guilty look before hanging his head. "I'm sorry, Dad. After all the money you put into me winning the championship…"

"Don't be sorry," Jeff told him gruffly. "As your brothers said, what you did for Carlos Estrada is much more important. I'm proud of you, Son. We all are."

Still inspecting the floor, Alan didn't see his family's nodding heads. "I suppose I did all right."

"All right!?" Grandma exclaimed. "I told you to be careful, young man…"

Alan hung his head even further. "I know, Grandma."

"But you still disobeyed me!" Much to his surprise, Grandma wrapped Alan up in a big hug. "And I'm glad, Honey. You did well." She kissed him on the forehead.

Somewhat surprised by his grandmother's reaction, Alan gave her a half-hearted hug in reply before he relaxed into a bashful grin.

The door to the corporate box was flung open. "Jeff!" It was Karl Richards. "Do you know where…? Oh, Alan!" he said when he spied his driver. "Good! You're here!"

"What's wrong, Mr Richards?" Alan asked. "How's Carlos?"

"Last I heard he was holding his own," Richards replied. "But that's not why I'm here. Rodriguez wants an immediate meeting with you. You too, Jeff."

"Rodriguez?" Jeff repeated. "The championship co-ordinator? Why?"

"I don't know. Something to do with the final race standings, I think. I only know that he wants to talk to the three of us and Gomez's camp. And that he said it's urgent." Karl Richards turned to the rest of the family. "You might want to turn the TV back on again. The media will hear as soon as anyone."

"We'll meet you back here when we've finished the meeting," Jeff suggested. "Come on, Alan."

Alan, who had been trying to come to terms with the end of his dream, seemed startled that it wasn't about to let him rest. "Uh… Yes, Sir."

The room was quiet when the three men had bustled out. Scott put his bags back down on a chair. "Oh, well. I suppose we might as well do as they say. Where's this off/on switch, Gordon?"

"Over there. On the right."

Pixels fired back into life. "…ther dramatic announcement in an altogether dramatic day!" the TV announcer soliloquised. "After all the excitement that we've endured over all these months; after each twist and turn, both on and off the track; at last, when we finally thought we had a resolution; it seems that that the fates have one more surprise for us…"

"And that would be?" John asked the television set.

"I can't believe it," the co-announcer was saying. "After a year's racing… For it to have come down to this!"

"To what?" Gordon snapped at the TV.

"What can be going through the minds of the Gomez and Tracy camps?" Announcer-one asked.

"The Tracy camp is wondering what you're talking about!" Virgil told him.

"Apparently World Championship Co-ordinator Rodriguez Auel is holding a meeting with representatives of Team Victory and Team Tracy as we speak…" Announcer-two informed the viewers.

"We know that," Grandma said. "What we don't know is: about what?!"

"We did try to get interviews with the two principal drivers, Victor Gomez and Alan Tracy; to hear their responses to the news. But Gomez has refused to talk and Tracy, typically, avoided the media and disappeared soon after he returned to his compound."

"Stranger and stranger," Announcer-two said.

"Yep," Gordon agreed. "There's nothing stranger than you two."

"For those of you who have just joined us…" Announcer-one began.

"Or have been listening to you for the last half hour," John griped. He was shushed.

"…the news is that after a dramatic crash, during which race leader Alan Tracy saved the life of fellow driver Carlos Estrada and which caused the race to be curtailed due to track damage..." Announcer-one paused for what he considered dramatic effect. "...no clear winner, either of today's race or the overall championship, has been found."

The Tracys sat up. "What?!"

"That is correct," Announcer-two confirmed. "As we speak, negotiations are being held between the management and drivers of both teams to try to reconcile this situation."

"But… But… What about points?" Grandma asked.

As if he'd overheard, Announcer-one picked up her cue. "Under normal circumstances other scoring systems would come into play. But both Gomez and Tracy have the same number of points. Both have completed the same number of races. Both have _won_ the same number of races and, bizarrely, they have received the same number of minor placings. There are those who are of the opinion that because Gomez completed more of today's race than Tracy, then he should be the one awarded the title. But then there are those who, in light of the fact that Tracy was saving the life of a fellow competitor at the time, don't believe that this fact alone is enough to gift Victor Gomez the glory."

Announcer-two held up his hand. "We have just received word that the man Alan Tracy saved, Carlos Estrada, is in a critical condition at the Parola Sands hospital. He is in theatre being treated for smoke inhalation, various broken bones, including three breaks to his right leg, and unspecified internal injuries…"

Gordon drew in his breath. "Nasty."

"…and his family are rushing to the hospital as we speak."

"My heart goes out to those poor people," Grandma commented. "They've got no idea what they're in for."

John pulled a portable computer from out of his bag. "I'll send them a letter of support and say that they can give us a call if they need anything." He looked at the group, fingers over the keyboard. "Okay?" He received his family's blessing and started typing.

The Tracys watched the TV for the next hour, not learning anything new about either Carlos' condition or the status of the world championship. Virgil was just getting his grandmother her second cup of coffee when his father entered the room.

"What have you heard?" Jeff asked as he accepted a cup from his son.

"Nothing much." Scott turned off the TV. "No word on the final standings or Carlos."

"From what I know, Carlos is still being operated on," Jeff admitted. "It sounds like Alan's actions acerbated his injuries, but if he hadn't acted the way he did…" He let his words tail off, knowing there was no need to continue.

"And the race standings?" Gordon asked.

"It's been a battle, but a decision has been reached. There is going to be another race, solely between Alan and Gomez, to decide the overall winner."

"When?" John asked. "Where?"

Jeff looked at his watch. "On the practise circuit in about half an hour." He gave a wry grin. "Gomez wasn't pleased. He felt that as he _would_ have finished the race first, had it been allowed to continue, then he should be award maximum points. He dug his heels in."

"And Alan?" Virgil asked.

"He said that he didn't care if Gomez was awarded the title, but I'm afraid that I said that I felt that both of them should have the opportunity to have an honest attempt at winning the championship. I don't want Alan to have any regrets in the future; but I'm not sure that he's in the right frame of mind to compete now. However, since the series finale has already been delayed once and there are still a large number of spectators waiting to see a result, my opposition was overruled and both teams are in their compounds getting ready as we speak."

"Why the practise circuit?" Grandma asked. "Where is it? And why not use the full one?"

"Carlos' accident caused too much damage to the main track. The practise one cuts out the Parola bluffs and offers greater opportunities for overtaking. As a bonus, the whole track can be seen from the grandstands so the organisers think it'll make a better spectacle for the remaining spectators. _And_ they don't want it to be a cakewalk for whoever manages to reach the first corner first."

"How many laps?" Gordon asked.

"Ten. The whole race should be over inside fifty minutes."

"Well, if nothing else, this'll be a test for Alan to see how he handles stress," Scott mused. "But I think he'll be okay."

Having seen Alan in the highly stressful situation of being at the controls of a crashing aeroplane, Virgil had to agree. His phone rang. "Hi, Butch."

"Hiya, Virgil. What's goin' on?"

Virgil explained what he knew. "We're just waiting for the rematch to start."

"He'll do okay. He's primo," the big man enthused. "Gomez is gonna be wasted."

"I'm sure Alan appreciates your confidence in him," Virgil chuckled. "Next time I see him I'll tell him you called."

"Wouldja?" Butch sounded as though he'd just been told that he'd won the lottery. "Tell'm me 'n Lisa are glued to th' TV jus' ta see him win."

"Will do. See you Monday, Butch."

"Yeah. Then it'll be time t' celebrate. See ya, Pal."

The Tracys turned the TV on and listened to the two announcers' inane conversation until there were signs of activity on the starting grid. Gomez's car was manoeuvred into pole position, since that was the spot he'd earned in the qualifying laps. Then Alan's was shifted into the second place and the two drivers walked out to their vehicles. Alan, as usual, had his helmet on, but Gomez could be seen saying something to his competitor. Alan appeared to ignore the older man's sneer and held out his hand. Gomez looked at it disdainfully and walked away.

"I'll bet Gomez hasn't just said 'good luck'," Gordon surmised.

Grandma humphed. "I've never liked that man."

"I can't say I have either," Jeff agreed. "And today's meeting has done nothing to improve my opinion of him, or his manager. But he's an excellent driver and he's earned his place in this race."

The starting grid was cleared of all but the two drivers in their cars. The start lights shone red…

Amber…

Yellow…

Green!

With a roar both cars leapt from the grid. Neck and neck they raced for the corner, first honours going to Gomez as he forced Alan wide. Alan tucked back into Gomez's slipstream, waiting for his moment to pounce.

His chance arose in the third lap when he drew parallel with the Team Victory car and then nipped in front when they took a bend.

A cheer went up from the Tracys.

They lost their ebullient mood when Gomez took control of the race again at the end of the fifth lap.

"The show's not over until the fat lady sings," Gordon quoted; feeling in his left shoe to confirm that his lucky charm was still there.

Lap seven had more twists and turns than the full Parola Sands course. Gomez led into it, only to be overtaken by Alan. Alan's lead lasted one corner before Gomez, nudging the other car out of the way, pulled in front. Alan regained control, feinted a move on Gomez's right before overtaking on his competitor's left.

There was another cheer from the corporate box. "Nice move, Alan!"

Alan managed to put some distance between the pair of them on the next straight, only to have it shrink back again at the corner.

Lap eight: Marked by Gomez deciding to use his vehicle like a bumper car to shunt Alan out of the way. One particularly nasty blow caught the panel above Alan's right rear wheel and bent it in so it was rubbing on the tyre. The resultant unbalanced friction slowed Alan down and Gomez took advantage; overtaking yet again before speeding away.

There were howls of indignation from the Tracy camp.

Fortunately for Alan, the irritating panel fell off, freeing the wheel and allowing him to regain speed.

Lap nine: Fate struck a blow against Gomez when he ran over the dislodged panel and it jammed for a moment in his wheel well, giving Alan the chance to catch up again.

Lap ten.

It was agony watching the two cars so close together. Each member of the Tracy family stood; shoulder to shoulder; willing the youngest on; wishing that they could help him in some way and hoping that he would manage to sneak past Victor Gomez to claim that title that he'd dreamt of winning for so long.

The cars rounded that final corner. Gomez still just in front.

Alan floored it.

As the two competitors roared down the final straight Alan drew closer and closer to his opposition, breathing down Gomez's neck. The winner's chequered flag and the end of all his hard work drawing nearer and nearer…

"Come on, Alan!"

"You can do it!"

"Go!!"

The flag dropped.

As one, the Tracys groaned and collapsed back into their seats.

"I don't believe it," Scott protested. "I'm dreaming! It can't be a photo finish! Pinch me somebody!"

Nobody did.

"I can't bear to look." Gordon was hiding his eyes behind his hands. "Tell me he won. Please tell me he won."

Virgil glanced down into the pits. Things were subdued in both camps as the drivers drove into their respective compounds. Alan discarded his helmet for his hat and glasses, pulled himself out of the cockpit and sat on the body of his car where, only hours earlier, he'd saved Carlos Estrada's life. He stared up at the scoreboard.

It was blank.

Karl Richards came up to the young man, said something to him and clapped him on the back.

The scoreboard looked down on them mutely.

Alan removed his hat enough so that he could run his hand through his hair and then jammed the cap back down again.

And still everyone waited.

Then two lines of text flashed up.

They all stared at it.

The top line read the number one. Followed by the winner's name…

..._Alan Tracy_

Alan sprang to his feet and punched the air in jubilation.

"He won!"

Virgil wasn't sure who'd shouted first. Him? His father? Scott…?

Who cared?

Nearly as elated as the day that Gordon had awoken from his coma, the Tracys cheered...

They applauded...

They danced...

They leapt about the room.

Gordon, not quite as energetic as the rest of his family, remained in his seat with a dazed expression on his face. "He did it…?" Hardly daring to believe what he'd just witnessed, he double checked the scoreboard and then looked to his ecstatic family for confirmation. "He did it!" Unable to contain his excitement any longer he threw his Team Tracy hat into the air in celebration. "_Wahoo_!"

Virgil found himself squashed by one of Scott's bear hugs and reciprocated in kind. "He won! Alan won!"

Jeff pointed down towards the pits. "That's my boy!"

Grandma, breathless, was the first to stop partying. "Jeff! Let's go and see Alan!"

"Right you are, Ma," he agreed. "Come on, boys. Get your gear together."

When they reached the Team Tracy compound Alan was still standing on the seat of his car; submitting to his sole interview of the series against the background hubbub of celebration. He'd dismissed his own heroics and was in the process of praising the Team Tracy mechanics. "If it hadn't been for those guys, I would never have won! They were the ones who got the speed out of the car to get me over the finish line firs..." He spied his family. "Dad!" Ignoring the microphone that had been shoved under his nose, he leapt out of the car and dashed across, grabbing his father around the neck in a bear hug. "I did it, Dad! I did it! I won!"

Laughing, Jeff twirled him around as if he were six again. "I know you did, Alan. I'm proud of you."

Alan released his grip on his father and threw himself at the scrum that was made up of his jubilant brothers. "I won!"

Beaming in delight, Scott grabbed him by both shoulders. "_This_ is _MY_ little brother!" He pulled Alan into a hug.

Laughing, John pulled Alan free of Scott's grasp, and into an embrace of his own. "You mean _OUR_ little brother!"

Virgil couldn't help himself. He grabbed Alan about the chest and lifted him off the ground. "You're primo!" he exclaimed, quoting Butch Crump. "You're awesome, Alan!"

"Gordon!" Alan grabbed Gordon's hand. "I did it for you, Gordon. I won for you!"

"No," Gordon refuted. "You did it for you. This is your victory." He twisted Alan's grip so he was able to raise his hand high. "The champion!"

"Grandma!" Alan hugged his grandmother before he picked her up and placed her, laughing, into the cockpit of his car. "I won, Grandma!" He kissed her, laughed, and then kissed her again.

It was these scenes of jubilation that produced the photographs that were to become the iconic images of this amazing world championship. The first photo was of Jeff Tracy, his arms wrapped around the world champion in an expression of delight. There were those who saw this portrait as a representation of a father's pride in his son's achievements; while those more cynically-minded saw it as a multi-billionaire realising the return on his investment...

The second photo was of a crippled former Olympic gold medallist raising the hand of the present world champion in triumph. A pity that their hats and sunglasses hid much of their faces...

But it was the third photo that was the most frequently published...

Victor Gomez stepped up to the celebration party. "Ma'am," he acknowledged Mrs Tracy as he attempted to show some civility. "Tracy." He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile, before, with less than good grace, he held out his hand to Alan. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, Gomez," Alan responded with the magnanimity that came easily to the winner of a hard fought race. "I couldn't have asked to compete against a better opponent."

Gomez's face darkened and he gripped Alan's hand harder, pulling the younger man close. "I won't forget this, Tracy," he growled, to the accompaniment of clicking cameras. "I'm giving you warning here and now. If we ever meet again, you'll regret it."

He released his grip and walked away.

_To be continued…_


	28. A Quiet Quandary

**28: A Quiet Quandary**

"I can't believe it," Bruce Sanders said as he took a sip from his first cup of ACE's coffee. "This time next week you won't be here. You'll be off, far from winter, lazing in the heat of the sun on the beach on your tropical island."

"Hardly lazing," Virgil corrected. "I am leaving to work for my father, remember?"

"On your tropical island."

"_His_ tropical island. Not mine."

"With golden sands."

"Yes."

"And palm trees."

"Yes."

"And warm sunny days."

"Yes."

"And you won't be lazing?"

"No."

"Yeah, right..."

The pair of them were interrupted in their discussion by Butch and Lisa. "I was just saying," Bruce explained, "That I can't believe that Virgil's been here a year and that he's only got a week at ACE to go."

"I know…" Lisa took a seat beside Virgil. "Things won't be the same without you here. You've given us so much."

"Yeah." Butch agreed. "I never 'ad a real friend until you came. I'm gonna miss you, Pal."

Bruce started miming playing a violin and received an admonitory slap from Lisa. "Stop it!"

Virgil laughed. "I'll miss you guys too… But I know one person who'll be glad I'm leaving."

"Watts," Butch guessed.

"No. Actually I was thinking of Greg. Once I'm gone he can revert back to being a Charge Hand and he'll be free from most of his dreaded paperwork."

"True," Lisa mused. "I suppose he's got the silver lining to our cloud of misery."

"Cheer up!" Virgil begged. "I promise I'll come and visit. And maybe once we've settled on the island you guys will be able to come and visit me?"

"Now that's my idea of a vacation," Bruce said, a wistful expression on his face. "Away from the winter cold and enjoying the heat… Lazing in the sun… in the shade of palm trees… sipping cocktails…

"Knowing that Gordon and Alan are probably plotting the most elaborate way to douse you in ice water," Virgil supplied.

"I suppose that means that Gordon's feeling better?" Lisa asked.

"He is. He doesn't have to attend the Willis every day, so he's already moved to the island…"

"His tropical island," Bruce sighed. "With sun, sand, palm trees, beautiful maidens…"

"The only 'maiden' there," Virgil corrected, "is Grandma. She's keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn't overdo it."

"Oh," Lisa looked disappointed. "Does that mean we won't be seeing Mrs T before you leave?"

"No. She's too busy making sure that everyone eats properly. Kyrano's in England visiting Tin-Tin and Grandma's worried that the men in her family are going to starve. She forgets that she's taught us all how to cook. Even Alan's more than capable in the kitchen."

"Is it true that e's retired from racin'?" Butch asked. "Lotza people was hopin' that e'd defend his title."

"It's true," Virgil confirmed. "He's proven himself, reached his goal, and now he's ready to move on."

"To work for your father," Lisa remembered. "With you and your brothers."

"Yes."

"On a tropical island…" Bruce gave yet another dramatic sigh as he replayed his theme. "With sun, sand, palm trees… And you say you'll be working?" He laughed.

"We will be!" Virgil protested. "Working hard."

"Have you heard who's going to replace you here at ACE?" Bruce asked. "It's not going to be George Watts, is it?"

"I don't think so," Virgil replied. "I got an email from him last night. He hasn't scored a contract yet, but some record company's representatives want to see him perform live. He's got a few months to go before his year's up and his father demands that he gets a 'proper job', so he's hopeful that this meeting will at least show that he's not wasting his time."

Lisa replaced her cup on the table. "Well, whoever does replace you; at least he shouldn't be as bad an engineer as George."

"Remember my position was created for me, so Uncle Hamish might decide not to replace me at all." Virgil grinned. "Maybe I'm irreplaceable?"

"And modest with it," Bruce scoffed.

Greg Harrison stepped up to their table. "Butch, Virgil, Bruce… I'm glad I've got you three together. This 'flu that's going around has hit ACE hard and Max Watts' crew has been decimated. I said he could have you three for today's pour. Okay?"

"Sure," Bruce agreed. "No sweat."

"Good." Greg gave a grim smile. "But keep an eye on him would you? He's picked up the bug too and I don't think he should be at work, but you know how he'd react if I tried to say something to him. I'm going to talk to the boss now, which is why I'm giving him you three. I know I can trust you to keep an eye on him until Mr Mickelson makes a ruling."

"Do you think it's a good idea having _me_ work for him?" Virgil asked. "You know I'm not is favourite employee. Just being near me will probably make him feel worse… and more stubborn."

Greg laid a hand on his shoulder. "I think it's an excellent idea. If you think he's too ill to be here, don't be afraid to tell him." The supervisor gave an evil grin. "And if he sacks you it'll only mean that you're finishing at ACE a week earlier than planned."

"Gee. Thanks," Virgil said with more than a hint of sarcasm. "He nearly fired me my first week here, and now you're trying to get him to finish the job on my last?"

Greg laughed. "After you've all finished your break, get kitted up in your thermal PPE and meet him at the furnace. Lisa, you can carry on welding that job you started this morning."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil pulled his silver heat-resistant hood over his head and fastened it securely to the body of his similarly protective suit. "Can you hear me?" he asked.

"Yup," Butch responded.

"Loud and clear." Bruce's voice was heard through the speakers in the hood. "Are you reading us?"

"Yes."

"Betta check ya seals," Butch offered. "Make sure they're locked down tight."

"Yes," Bruce chuckled. "We can't have wild animals wandering about the place getting everything wet."

Virgil groaned and then submitted to letting Bruce check that there were no gaps in his protective clothing, before he in turn checked Butch's. Then the three men started making their way towards the crucible furnace.

"Have ya heard 'ow's Carlos Estrada?" Butch asked Virgil.

"Last time I spoke to Alan he said that they brought Carlos out of the medically-induced coma a couple of days ago. Fortunately he's not showing any sign of brain damage so they're hoping he'll make a full recovery. But, with all the other injuries he received, he's got a long road ahead of him. Gordon gave him a call to offer him his support yesterday and he said that Carlos sounded quite well, considering."

"Good," Butch grunted. "'E's a good driver an' deserved a better season."

"Yes," Virgil agreed. "It wasn't his year."

"AN'," Butch added, warming to his topic, "I reckon they shoulda scratched Gomez for cheatin'. Then Alan woulda won; even afta he help'd Estrada, without havin' to race agin."

Virgil was surprised by the comment. "Cheating?"

"Yeah... Ya can't tell me he wasn' behind th' sabutage…"

The sudden unexpected sound of a woman's scream brought the three men up short. Then there was a flicker of lights and the even more unexpected sound of every machine in the shop grinding to a halt.

Alarmed, Bruce looked about him in the glow of generator-driven lights. "What's happened?"

"There!" Butch pointed up towards the ceiling of Aeronautical Component Engineering.

Virgil followed the outstretched finger and saw a macabre sight. Suspended a metre below the gantry, above the mouth of the crucible furnace, silver PPE suit reflecting in the hellishly red glow; hung a body. The hooded head lolled as if lifeless, while, in an apparent contradiction, the victim seemed to be trying to keep cool by holding his arms away from his torso.

Virgil felt his mouth grow dry. Then his brain switched back into action. "Come on!" Grabbing some coils of heat resistant rope, he led his two friends in a run up the steps to the gantry from which the unknown figure hung.

"Who is it?" Bruce puffed.

"Watts," Butch grunted. "It'sa Super's suit."

"What's he hanging by?"

"Dunno. 'Is collar?"

"Is he tethered? Why didn't he tether himself? It's standard safety prac..."

"_STOP_...!" Their panted discussion was interrupted when Virgil threw his arms out wide as a barrier. They looked down to where Max Watts swayed below their feet. Suddenly the heat-resistant mesh surface they were standing on seemed flimsy and insubstantial. "We're rocking the gantry!" Virgil whispered. "Walk forward slowly."

As they moved closer they could see that the security gate had been unlatched and confirmed that, for some reason, the Production Manager hadn't attached a safety line to his harness. He'd only been saved from a death plunge because that harness had snagged on a metal strut. Bruce stared down at the stricken man. "How do we get to him?"

Virgil, having already tethered himself using the standard safety line, had started tying one end of a rope to the sides of the gantry. The other end he tied carefully about a carabiner using what was known in abseiling circles as a Munter knot. "I'll go down and try to secure him." He tested his knot and then leant over the barrier to look down on the Production Manager.

"Virgil...!" Bruce protested. "Don't!"

"Yeah! Don' risk ya neck!" Butch agreed. He pointed down to where the crucible furnace was inching its way along its tracks. "Look! They's already movin' it. Wait'll it's gone."

"That harness won't hold him for long... Especially if he wakes up and panics..."

"…Or has a seizure," Bruce agreed. "But even so, Virgil, you can't risk your neck."

"And I can't stand by and not do anything…" Virgil looked down on the hanging man and was alarmed to see that Watts' swaying had appeared to increase. "_STOP THE FURNACE_!"

It was Greg Harrison's voice who responded. "Why? We can't rescue him until that's clear!"

"The heat currents!" Virgil explained.

"Heat currents?"

"Air eddies from the furnace are moving him. Could be enough to dislodge him!" Virgil heard Greg swear and then the furnace ground to a halt; it's fiery red mouth open and waiting to swallow up its victim.

"Medusa's writhing snakes, huh?" Bruce commented. "You still can't go down there, Virgil. It's too dangerous."

Virgil held up a standard safety line that had a carabiner attached to the end. "I'm going to clip this on to his harness for extra security." He clipped it to his own belt so that both hands were free.

"But, Virgil..."

Virgil ignored Bruce's protest, preferring instead to check that the bigger man was safely secured. "Good... Make sure I don't swing too close to him, Butch. I can't risk knocking him."

"Virgil!" It was Greg's voice again. "Am I to understand that you want to be lowered down...?"

"No. I'm going to rappel down."

"I can't allow you to do that," Greg stated. "I'm coming up."

"_DON'T_!" Virgil yelled. "Not yet. Not till I've got the safety line on him."

"I can't let you risk it, Virgil!"

"And I can't allow him to fall!"

"Virgil…"

"We're wasting time, Greg."

"Virgil! It's Hamish Mickelson! Don't do this! Think what your father would say."

"You know exactly what he'd say," Virgil responded and sat on the edge of the gantry. From here he could see the upturned faces of his work colleagues watching the drama unfold, and wished he didn't have an audience. If he failed… "Watch the rope, Butch."

"'Kay." Butch Crump had a tight grip of the line. "I wish ya'd think again, Pal," he said as Virgil lowered himself over the edge of the gantry. Bruce, realising that further protests were useless, stood watch over the secondary line.

Virgil was relieved to feel the Munter knot take hold on the carabiner. It wasn't an ideal method of abseiling, but in an emergency it was more than adequate for the job. The rope was looped about the carabiner in such a way that by raising and lowering the free end of the rope, friction enabled the abseiler to control the speed of his descent.

Looking downwards as he descended, Virgil could see the red-hot mouth of the cauldron, growing closer and closer; big enough to swallow two men with ease. Sinking lower he could feel the heat of the crucible furnace seeping through his protective coveralls. Beads of perspiration were standing out on his forehead and running into his eyes. He longed to cuff it away but knew that his hood rendered any such attempt futile.

He stopped descending next to Max Watts and tied off the rope. Taking care not to bump against the victim, he slowly spun in mid-air until he was facing his supervisor.

"'S'e alive?" Butch asked.

A drop of sweat ran into Virgil's eye and he blinked to remove it. "I think so. I think I can see him breathing." He concentrated on what he knew for sure. "He hasn't done his harness up. He could slide out of it at any moment."

"What are you going to do then?" Bruce asked.

"Attach the safety line. That'll give him some protection if it gives way."

"Be careful you don't dislodge him…"

Virgil unclipped the spare carabiner from his belt. Then, moving with as much care as he could, he reached out, his gloved hands feeling awkward and ungainly. "Nearly… got… it…" With difficulty he managed to hold the carabiner open, hook it over its associated ring on the back of Watts' loose harness, and then let go; breathing a sigh of relief when the supervisor didn't slip. "Done it… Okay, Greg. Come up now. Don't rock things too much… Butch, move me closer, but don't bump me into him. I'll fasten his harness and then you pull him up."

"Watch you don't fray the rope," Bruce warned, as he saw the lifeline scrape along the sharp edge of the gantry.

"What's the temperature on his oxygen gauge, Virgil?" Greg asked.

Virgil had already satisfied himself on that point. "Still green."

"Good," Greg grunted as he stepped out onto the mesh that was the floor of the gantry they were working from.

A tremor ran along the structure.

It was enough to cause Max Watts' harness to lose its tenuous grip on the gantry and he fell. The newly attached secondary line took hold, tipping his upper body forward and threatening to send him sliding headfirst towards certain death.

There were yells from people down below as Virgil grabbed at the falling man; wrapping both his arms and legs about him. He took a moment to catch his breath. "Whew… That was close!"

"Yeah," Bruce agreed. "I thought he was going to go for a nose dive then."

"Okay…" Pressed up against Watts' back, Virgil reached around and tried to fasten the harness's clasp; a job made more difficult because the straps had slipped down the supervisor's arms, pulling them up and back. His legs still wrapped around Watts' for added security, Virgil tried to slide the harness from Watts' elbows; back over his shoulders.

As he worked he could hear Bruce asking questions. "How long has he been there?"

"I last saw him about quarter of an hour before morning tea," Greg admitted. "That was when he asked me if he could borrow some men."

"Was he wearing his PPE?"

"Ummm… Had his coveralls on, but not his hood."

"So he could have been hanging there, in the heat, for up to twenty minutes. Could you find out if anyone saw him after that, Mr Mickelson?"

"I'll ask…" There was a short delay before Hamish Mickelson responded. "No… Are you concerned about heat stroke, Bruce?"

"Yeah. If his body temperature rises to over 41 degrees Celsius, he'll not only dehydrate, his brain will start dying. And, if he already had the 'flu…"

Virgil had been struggling with Max Watts' harness all this time, and now he admitted defeat. "It's no good. I can't fasten it. Send down another rope with a carabiner and I'll secure him with that."

"'Kay," Butch responded. "With ya in a mo. Gotta tie you off first."

"Thanks." Virgil felt himself rise and fall as both his rope and safety lines were made fast. The bobbing action caused Watts' arms to flap up and down as well in something of a ghoulish imitation of a bird in flight.

"Here it comes," Bruce announced.

Virgil looked up and more perspiration ran into his eyes as he reached for the life line. "It sure it hot down here." He automatically rubbed his arm over his forehead, and only succeeded in smearing sweat over the inside of his visor; blurring his view of the world.

"If you want out, just give us the word and we'll pull you out," Greg offered.

"No. I can't give up now. Not till he's safe." Virgil looped the new rope about Max Watt's torso, below the armpits, and then reached around to clip the carabiner onto the line.

The rope was too short.

He looked back up. Can you give me more slack?"

"Sorry, Virgil," Bruce told him. "That's all it's got."

Virgil swore. "Can't you find another?"

"Not with a carabina," Butch stated. "We gotta plain rope."

Virgil didn't have time to wait. "Send it down. I'll tie a bowline."

"'Kay… Here it comes…"

Virgil looked up and tried to blink away the perspiration that had settled in his lashes. His legs were starting to cramp up: a result of hanging on to Watts or because he was starting to dehydrate, he wasn't sure. He watched as the new rope snaked down to him and was reminded of the reptiles' association with Medusa: the woman who turned men into stone just by looking at them. He reached up, resisting the desire to throttle the life out of the venomous creature, and pushed his feverish fantasies down into his subconscious where they belonged. He grabbed the rope firmly and then wrapped the harmless length of man-made fibres about Watts' upper torso.

"Howzit goin'?" Butch asked.

"Okay..." Virgil gritted his teeth and had his first attempt at tying the knot that would allow Max Watts to be dragged up to safety.

He failed.

He tried again.

He failed again.

Remembering how to tie a bowline wasn't a problem, he'd done it so many times in Scouts and in later years, that it was practically second nature. The problem was his lack of visibility and his gloves. Because of his position at Max Watts' back he had to rely on feel, rather than sight; and the thick heat-resistant gloves made it nearly impossible to manipulate the rope.

Virgil attempted the knot a third time, but the free end of the rope fell out of his hand. He cursed, but was unable to reach it. "Can you swing it closer?"

Someone above him (all three men were starting to blur in the heat and their identical silver suits), swung the rope and Virgil managed to grab it, wrap it back around Watt's body, and attempt to tie the knot a fourth time.

With the same result. "I'm going to have to take my glove off."

"Don't, Virgil! We'll try to pull him out now…!" Greg warned, but Virgil had already removed the right glove.

The burning heat was almost unbearable, but the thought of Max Watts falling to his death was worse, so Virgil tucked the glove between their two bodies, and attempted the bowline again. In theory it was a knot that should have been achievable one-handed, but he had to reach around the body of an adult male and tie a knot with a hand slicked with sweat and burning in pain. "Give me more slack in the rope."

"Here comes…"

Virgil was nothing, if not tenacious. He tried several more times to secure the knot, but each time, when he thought he was getting somewhere, the knot fell free.

He took a moment to have a rest. It was becoming harder to breathe in this heat. The cramp in his legs was becoming insufferable and he longed to stretch them. He was beginning to get a headache and his mouth felt parched. Perspiration was running like a waterfall off his forehead and his clothing was sticking to his skin. He knew he was slowly dehydrating. He knew he had to get out of there soon.

But he knew that he had to get Max Watts out even sooner.

Virgil pulled his left glove off. This time the burning sensation seemed even more intense and he sucked in his breath at the sudden onslaught of pain.

"Virgil!" Bruce's anxious voice sounded as if he was standing behind him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah…" Virgil croaked and flexed his bare fingers. The reddened skin felt tight and unyielding. He tried to tuck the left glove next to its sibling, but he lost his grip and it fell from his grasp. Following its descent, he watched as it hit the molten metal below, burst onto flame, and vanished. He tried to swallow, aware that that was the fate awaiting him should he fall, but his throat felt as if it was closing in on itself.

"Keep hold of Watts and we'll pull you both out," Butch suggested.

"No…" Virgil protested. "Too heavy…"

"Then let go and let us pull you up!"

"No… Gi'me…" Virgil gulped, "more – zlack."

The bowline rope above him bulged and he grabbed it with his left hand and looped it. Then he fed the free end through the loop before twisting it about the rope above. He nearly dropped the end: managing to grab it at the last moment as his heart pounded in his chest. Sliding the end of the rope back against itself through the loop again, he pulled it tight and was relieved to feel friction take hold. "Done it." He let his arms fall free and his newly tied bowline held firm. "Take…" His throat felt dry and raspy. "Take up – th' 'lack." He watched as the bulge disappeared. "Got 'im?"

"We've got him, Virgil," Greg assured him. "You can let go."

Virgil let go of the supervisor and swung free, not seeing his right glove fall into the furnace. He hung there, swaying in the rising heat, and watched as, to the accompaniment of cheers and applause from those down below, Max Watts rose up away from danger and into the welcoming arms of his rescuers. Greg and Bruce, realising the urgent need to get the injured man away from the toxic heat of the crucible furnace, lay him onto a stretcher, and prepared to carry him down to the cool shop floor and waiting paramedics.

Virgil knew that this was not the time for self-congratulation, nor was the time to take a break and regain his breath. He was painfully aware that now was the time to escape. He looked up; his only focus a narrow tunnel of heat, pain and that rope seemed to climb forever skywards…

He reached above his head, grasped the rope, gritted his teeth as his hand screamed in painful protest, and pulled. He wasn't aware of what was going on around him and didn't realise that Butch was aiding his escape by pulling him up on the rope. He was only aware of his need to climb clear of the searing heat…

Arm over arm, burning inch over burning inch, Virgil Tracy hauled himself upwards. His skin stuck to the rope when he grabbed it, and ripped free when he let go, but he ignored the pain; driving himself onwards and upwards… Onwards and upwards to safety.

"'Ere!" Lying on his front, Butch Crump reached down. "Grab 'old of m' hand."

Surprised by the sudden intrusion of another human being into his restricted world and relieved that his ordeal was nearly over; Virgil reached out...

Their fingertips touched…

The rope slipped…

Butch made a desperate grab for his friend: but missed, overbalanced, and fell…

Lisa screamed…

Hamish Mickelson's heart leapt into his throat…

Bruce and Greg turned back in time to see Butch disappear over the edge of the gantry…

And Virgil found himself plummeting back down to where Medusa waited to turn him into stone…

_To be continued…_


	29. Virgil

**29: Virgil**

Scott Tracy hurdled the diving board that lay wrapped in its protective covering by the side of the pool. He dodged a pallet of anti-slip pool tiles, jumped over a stack of timber, side-stepped the crates of pool furniture, and took the stairs up to the house three at the time. He barrelled in through the patio doors and pushed someone out of his way as he made a beeline for his father's desk.

"Watch it!" Gordon complained as he steadied himself against the piano. "Invalid present!"

Scott ignored him as he shoved Alan to one side.

"Hey!" Alan rubbed the potential bruise on his arm. "What's the big idea?!"

John's book went flying and a ball of wool from Grandma's knitting rolled along the floor. "Scott!"

They were ignored as Scott ran behind his father's desk and slammed his hand down on the videophone's disconnect button.

"What the…!!" Jeff barely had time to register the blank screen before he was bodily removed from his chair. "Scott!! What are you doing?!"

Scott claimed the chair for himself and started punching buttons on the videophone. "Gotta call him," he muttered.

"Scott! That was an important business call!"

"Number… Got to ring his number… Phone him…"

"…Dad…?"

"_SCOTT_!!" Not used to being ignored by any of his sons; Jeff didn't try to hide his anger. "I want an explanation!"

"C'mon… C'mon!" Scott stared at the videophone as if he were willing the person on the other end to answer. When no one responded he punched in another series of numbers. "Try his cell…"

"…Dad…"

Jeff, even more furious, exploded. "_Scott Tracy_! Get _out_ of my seat…"

"…Dad…"

"…And get _into_ my study…"

"…Dad…"

"_Now!!"_

"Dad!!"

"_What!_" Jeff rounded on another son and was stunned into relative silence. "What's wrong, John?"

John had the appearance of a man who was about to be sick. "Look at him! We've seen this before."

"We have?" Alan queried. "This isn't the first time that Scott's lost it?"

"Not Scott," John replied. "Virgil."

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Gordon asked. When no one responded he looked at Alan, who shrugged.

John was leaning over the desk, trying to get his brother's attention. "Scott… What's happened to Virgil?"

Scott stared at John with an expression that, if John didn't know his brother better, would have been interpreted by most people as panic. "He's in danger."

"What kind of danger?"

"He's…" Scott grabbed John's hand like he was begging for help. "He's in danger," he repeated. "Snakes… And a woman… Bad woman… And heat! Lots of heat! Fire!!"

Alan snickered. "Sounds kinky." He was shushed by his father.

"And stone…" Scott babbled on. "So hot! We've got to help him!"

"Scott…" John released his brother's hold, walked around the desk so he was standing behind the chair, and took a gentle grip of tense shoulders. "Come with me. Let Dad call ACE and find out what's happened to Virgil."

"Yes… Good idea…" Scott appeared to agree. "A good idea… Call ACE, Father." But he didn't move from the seat, continuing to punch at buttons on the videophone. "Come on! Answer!"

"I will call ACE..." Jeff agreed. "But you've got to let me have my seat back."

"Come on," John said quietly as he guided Scott out of the chair. "Come with me… Let's give Dad some room."

"But I've got to do something!" Scott protested. "I can't do nothing!"

"Just wait one minute while Dad tries to phone ACE," John soothed. "Can you do that?"

Jeff, shaken by Scott's uncharacteristic behaviour, slipped past his two sons to reclaim his seat and pressed a button on the phone. "We'll know something soon."

"Scott?" Grandma discarded her knitting and approached her grandson. "You're shivering! Are you cold?"

"Not cold… Hot…" Eyes wide, Scott wrung his hands together.

Jeff summoned Brains to the lounge.

"Hot?" Grandma felt Scott's forehead. "You don't feel feverish…"

"Are you saying that Virgil's hot?" John asked trying to keep his brother's attention away from the fact that their father had given up on the phone was now accessing his computer. "How hot?"

"Burning hot," Scott stated. He pulled at the neck of his shirt. "Melting," he added as he undid the top button of his collar.

"Who's this woman?"

"Don't know. Bad woman." Scott made a move towards his father and the videophone.

"Bad woman…" John tightened his grip, holding him back. "So you said. What's she doing to Virgil?"

Scott looked down at his shaking hands before curling them into fists. "Burning him."

Brains entered the room. "Y-You called, Mr Tracy?"

"Ah, Brains," Jeff looked up briefly from his computer. "Good. Can you…" A red flashing light on the computer screen caught his attention and he swore.

"Jeff!" His mother scolded. "Language!"

"M-Mr Tracy?" Brains repeated, shocked by his employer's behaviour.

Jeff swallowed down a sudden panicked feeling of his own and turned in his chair to face his son. He realised for the first time that Scott was sweating and experienced an unpleasant feeling of déjà vu. He _had_ seen this before, only last time it was another son who'd been stressed and imploring him to help. "How did you know, Scott?"

"M-Mr Tracy?" Brains repeated for a third time. Bemused by everyone's lack of response, he took a step forward. "What's wrong, Mr Tracy?"

"It's ACE…" Wishing that he was imagining the data before him, Jeff dragged his eyes back to the computer screen. "They've gone into full emergency shut down…"

"Virgil!" Scott pushed John out of his way and, hemmed in by his grandmother, vaulted the desk. "Gotta get to Thunderbird One!" He ran towards the twin light fittings.

"No!" Jeff yelled. "Stop him!"

Alan, the only able-bodied member of the family close enough to intercept, tackled Scott to the floor; sending him skidding hands first across the newly laid carpet.

"Get off me!" Scott kicked out as he attempted to scramble towards his goal. "Let me go! I've got to get to Virgil!"

"No!" Alan fought to subdue his brother. He dodged flailing arms and legs. "Stop it!"

"Let me go!" Scott yelled again and rolled over so he was able to look up at his captor. "Got to get to Thunderbird One!" he repeated.

"No!" Pinning Scott's arms to the floor, Alan looked down on him. "You can't take Thunderbird One! She's not fully tested yet!"

"We've tested her!"

"Not for flying that distance and at speed!"

"Virgil's in danger!!"

"Virgil will never forgive you if you expose us before we're even fully operational!"

Something in Alan's words penetrated Scott's panicked brain. He cast one last haunted look towards the entrance to Thunderbird One's hangar and then back up into the pair of concerned, but equally determined blue eyes. "Not Thunderbird One... But… My plane! I'll take my plane! It'll take longer, but I'll be able to help him!" He struggled again to get free. "I've got to help him!"

Alan tightened his grip. "You won't help him by going off half cocked…"

Jeff was on his feet, desperate to help, although he wasn't sure which son needed his help more. "I wish Kyrano was here, he might understand what's going on …" He looked at John who appeared to be in pain. "Are you all right?"

"Yes…" John had finally regained his breath from when he'd been thrust against the sharp edge of the computer console. "Scott…" Rubbing his bruised abdomen, he hobbled over to where one brother was holding the other down. "Listen to me... I believe you."

Alan, still practically sitting on his bigger, stronger brother, glanced at him. "Huh?"

John crouched down so he could look Scott in the eye. "We believe you, Scott. We know that Virgil's in danger."

"What are you…?" Alan started saying, but stopped when he received a warning smack on the leg from his blonde sibling. "Ow!"

Scott stared at John and some of the fight went out of him. "You do?"

John nodded. "I do. We all do. Right, Dad?"

Jeff had gone back to trying to make phone contact with someone, but now he stood so he could see Scott's face. "Yes. I know that something's happened at ACE, and I believe that somehow Virgil's involved."

"And I believe you too!" Grandma reinforced. "I just wish that you could tell us what's happening to Virgil."

"I don…" Alan bit back another yelp when he received a second warning thump. "Don't do that…! I was going to say that I don't understand what's going on."

"Virgil's in danger and Scott's feeling it," John explained. "It's like that empathetic clairvoyance thing that Virgil had when Scott crashed in Bereznick, but in reverse."

"But Virgil only had an arm infection." Gordon, leaning on his solitary cane, stared down at the strange tableau. "Didn't he?"

"That's what the medical establishment said," John said, "because they didn't know any different. But we know better. Right?" He gave Alan and Gordon a meaningful glance.

"Okay," Gordon agreed, deciding to go along with the charade for the moment.

"Right, Grandma?" John asked.

"Of course."

"Dad?"

"Yes."

"Brains?"

"Uh… I m-must admit that the phenomenon is most fascinating."

"Alan?"

"It was an infection!"

John ignored him. Realising that Scott was no longer fighting against his captor, John felt confident that he was on the right track. "And we also know that, whatever's happened to Virgil and ACE, the authorities know what it is and they're dealing with it."

"That's right," Jeff confirmed. "As soon as that emergency shutdown kicks into action, a call goes out to the emergency services. They'd be on site within minutes."

"See..." John took a deep breath; praying that he was reading the situation correctly. "You can get off him now, Alan."

"What!?" Alan refused to release his iron-like grip. "No way! What if he makes another run for Thunderbird One?"

"He won't," John said, hoping that his confidence wasn't misplaced. "Not now. Right, Scott?"

Scott nodded. "I won't do anything stupid, Alan."

Alan looked at him sideways. "You promise?"

"Promise... I'd cross my heart if you'd let go of my arms."

"Let him up, Alan," John ordered.

Still wary and ready to pounce if necessary, Alan backed off and allowed Scott to sit up.

John reached out and placed a hand on his elder brother's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Scott wiped his face. Then he rubbed his damp palms on his trousers and nodded. "Just so long as you're not planning on calling out the men in white coats."

John chuckled. "They don't make house calls this far away." He gave the shoulder a squeeze.

Scott held his hands out flat in front of him, palms down. "Look at me! I'm shaking like a leaf!" He clenched his fists.

"And you're all sweaty too," John added. "Get up. You're dirtying the carpet."

Scott treated him to a weak smile. "Sorry I pushed you." He stood and walked over to the desk. "I'm sorry, Father."

"That's okay, Son. I'd like to say that I understand, but I'm not sure I do."

"No," Scott agreed. "Me neither." He cuffed his brow on his sleeve.

"Are you still feeling whatever it is you're feeling?"

"Yes." Scott looked down at his hands, which, despite his relative calmness, hadn't stopped shaking. "Virgil's still in danger… He's still hot." He ran his finger around his collar and undid another button. "Any luck getting hold of anyone?"

"No." Jeff turned his attention back to the videophone. "I'll try Hamish again."

"Sit down," John suggested, taking Scott by the elbow and guiding him to a sofa. "Let's see if you can give us some idea what's happening to Virgil."

"Here," Grandma patted the couch. "You can sit next to me, Honey." When her grandson had obeyed, she took his hand. "Virgil is still alive, isn't he?"

"Mother!" Jeff exclaimed.

"Don't tell me you're not wondering, Jeff."

"Oh, yeah!" Desperate to reassure his family, Scott gave a vigorous nod. "He's still alive."

"And he's in danger?"

Scott frowned. "I think so."

"Is he hurt?"

"I..." Scott dropped her hand and pulled a cushion out from behind his back. He hugged it; an action that he seemed unaware of, even if it didn't go unnoticed by the rest of the family. "I don't know... I'm getting so many, ah, signals, that I just don't know."

"Then let's break those signals down." John shifted a couple of books off the coffee table and sat on it so he and Scott were able to look at each other face-to-face. Normally his grandmother would have told him off for using the furniture in such a way, but this time she chose to ignore it.

Gordon, curious at what was happening and determined not to miss a minute of it, tucked his walking stick beside the chair and took the seat next to his grandmother. Brains pulled up a footstool and withdrew a notebook from his pocket. He sat there, pencil at the ready, waiting to document all that happened.

But Alan's scepticism had erected a firm wall between him and the evidence before them. "You're a scientist, John! How can you even start to place any credence on this empathetic clairvoyance nonsense?"

John glared at him. "I hope I'm not so narrow-minded that I can't accept that not everything in this world can be explained with computers and test-tubes."

"He has a point, Alan," Gordon noted. "How do you explain that Scott knew that Virgil was in danger, before we even knew that there was trouble at ACE? I suppose you're going to blame satellite phones again?"

His suggestion led to an eureka moment. "Satellite phones!" Alan crowed. "That's it! You've been talking to Virg on his cell phone. Right, Scott?"

But Scott shook his head. "No..."

The denial didn't deter Alan. "You're not allowed cell phones while at work, right, Dad?"

"That's right..."

"Then there's only one explanation! Tell the truth, Scott. You've been talking to Virgil while he's at work and you don't want to get him into trouble." Convinced by his own hypothesis, the youngest beamed in triumph.

"No." Scott denied. "We haven't…"

Gordon was shaking his head. "Come on, Alan? Virgil do something that's against the rules? And Scott too? That's almost laughable."

"So you're suggesting, Alan…." Their father spoke slowly. "That Scott's been talking to Virgil on the phone during work hours…" Alan gave an enthusiastic nod and ignored Scott's attempts to negate the suggestion. "And he told him that something's wrong?"

"Yes!"

"If that's the case then why didn't Virgil say exactly what's wrong? And how come I've tried Virgil's cell phone at least ten times and he's not answering?"

"Ah..." For a moment Alan was flummoxed... "Got it! Your number will come up on his caller ID. He doesn't want to get into trouble with the boss, so he's not answering your calls..." He pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket. "I'll prove it. I'll bet he'll answer my call." He pushed a speed dial, put the phone onto hands-free, and waited.

The phone rang...

They all stared at it.

It rang again...

They willed Virgil to answer it.

It rang again...

They looked at Alan who was staring at his phone…

Which rang again...

Alan banged the instrument lightly. "Darn thing must be broken."

"It's not broken," Scott insisted. "I haven't spoken to Virgil since yesterday." He hugged his cushion closer. "He's not going to answer… He can't. He's in danger."

"It's got to be a coincidence." Desperate to be proved right, Alan started to clutch at straws. "You're probably sick like Virgil was last time. You've been under a lot of strain lately; what with International Rescue and Gordon…"

"Don't bring me into this."

"Have you got a temperature?" Alan held out his hand and had it knocked away.

Grandma shook her head. "He hasn't."

"We don't even know that Virgil's in danger!" Alan insisted. "So how can you all claim that Scott's experiencing something paranormal?"

"Alan?" Jeff took a break from trying to reach various people. "How do you explain ACE's emergency shutdown at the same time that Scott's 'ill'?"

"Coincidence."

"Coincidence?" John repeated. "That's a glib answer with no foundation. Where's your proof?"

"Where's yours?" Alan challenged. "What evidence do you have that Scott and Virgil have some telepathic link?"

"You mean apart from having seen it happen with my own eyes twice?" John asked. "Not everything can be explained simply and easily. Just because I'm looking at a pile of carbon-based sludge that mutated over the millennia into my little brother, doesn't mean that I know what caused the first life forms to come into being."

"But John," Alan protested. "Telepathy? It's mumbo jumbo."

Brains had been following the discussion, his eyes bright with scientific interest. Now he leant forward. "Is that what you think is happening to you, Scott? That you are, er, have a telepathic link with Virgil? Can you read his mind?"

"I'm not reading his mind," Scott corrected. "It's more of a... uh..." He bit his lip as he tried to think of the right words.

Brains started scribbling in his notebook. "I must do a brain scan... And blood tests... Hormone levels..."

"Whoa!" Scott protested, holding his cushion out like a shield. "No way! Sorry, Brains. But this is weird enough as it is. I don't think I can handle anything else."

"Look, forget all that physical examination stuff," John suggested. "Let's see if we can analyse..."

"Will you all stop?!" Angry and frustrated, Scott jumped to his feet. Seeing Alan make a move to intercept him again; he strode behind the couch, keeping it between him and the others. "I am not a specimen for dissection! This has just happened and I don't know why! Like I don't know why you're all so interested in _me_ when Virgil's the one in danger!" He stopped, realised that he was hugging a cushion, and threw it onto a chair in disgust.

There was a moment's uncomfortable silence before Gordon, in typical fashion, tried to clear the air with humour. "Ah, ha," he crowed in the fake accent of a stereotypical psychiatrist. "Ver-ry inter-resting." He made a note on an imaginary clipboard. "Subject shows aggressive tendencies... I shall have to make further studies of this phenomonomonom." He pretended to look over a pair of spectacles at Scott. "Please be lying down on the couch again."

Scott made an exasperated sound and glanced over to where Jeff was still trying to make contact with ACE. Then he sighed. "Sorry." Picking up another cushion he reclaimed his seat as Brains made a show of putting his notebook away again.

"What I want to know," John began, "is: is this the first time this has happened? Did you feel anything when Virgil was beaten up by the Skulz?"

Scott glanced sideways at Brains before answering. "Yeah... Yes, I think I did... I didn't think anything of it until a few days later when I saw him in that video, on the ground getting smashed. Then I realised what it was I'd been experiencing."

"But you didn't mention it to him, did you?"

"No," Scott shook his head. "I didn't want him to worry."

John chuckled. "You two are definitely cast from the same mould."

"Huh?"

"He didn't want to talk to you about it either."

Scott looked hurt. "But why didn't he want to discuss this with me? Why you?"

"Because he didn't want you stressing that you'd be stressing him when you were stressed. Because he wanted to talk to someone about it who wasn't going to tell him it was all in his mind." John gave Alan a pointed look. "Or that he was out of it."

"John..." In between attempting phone calls Jeff had been following the discussion just as intently as the rest of his family. "I should have been informed. Do you realise what this means for International Rescue?"

"Yes. And I've just proved that so long as both these guys know that someone else believes them, and that they know that something is being done about the situation, they can control it... Right, Scott?"

"Yes," Scott agreed. "How'd you know?"

"Virgil told me...

"Virgil told you!?" Alan exclaimed.

"Yeah. He worked it out after he'd been stressing over Gordon's haematoma but didn't know why. He told me that he practically flipped out when that happened."

"Virgil?" Scott stared at John. "Gordon's haematoma? Is that why he was so desperate for me to promise to let him know the instant anything happened?"

"Yep. He nearly screwed up one of Thunderbird Three's panels because you were 'telling him' that something was wrong, but you didn't 'tell him' what. You stopped him from being able to concentrate on his work."

"I wish he'd told me."

"Well, he didn't and you can talk to him about it later... Now, you tell me, Scott. What's happening to Virgil? What is it you're feeling? Try to break it down into parts."

Scott looked sceptical. "Parts? I don't know that I can."

"Think about what you told us. You said Virgil was hot."

"He still is."

"What type of heat? External? Chemical? Thermal? You mentioned fire... Or is it medical? Has he got a fever?"

"F-Fever..." Brains piped up hopefully. "C-Could I take your temperature, Scott? J-Just in case you are ill and, er, it's not r-related to, ah, Virgil, and it is clouding what you are, er, seeing?"

Scott took pity on the little scientist and sat in quiet contemplation as the monitor was attached to his finger. "I think it's an external heat, John. And I think it's thermal."

Brains wrote something in his notebook, and Scott made no complaint as the monitor remained on his finger and his blood pressure and heart rate were taken.

"I wonder why he knew that you crashed your plane, but you don't know what's wrong with him?" John mused.

"Easy," Grandma stated. "Because Scott's a pilot. If Virgil had the sensation of falling for longer than a few seconds then the only way it could happen would be if the plane was falling out of the sky. But in Virgil's work environment anything could happen."

"That makes sense." John took a moment to think. "You said something about snakes. Have they come into the factory to get warm?"

Scott frowned. "I don't think they're real snakes... More of a metaphor."

"Metaphor? A metaphor for what?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't know. Evil?"

"Danger?" Alan suggested.

"Not all snakes are dangerous," Gordon reminded him. "And none are evil. Not unless they feel threatened by you and then they'll only attack in self-defence."

John gave an exasperated sigh. "Who's the woman, Scott?"

Scott looked blank. "Woman?"

"Yes. You said Virgil was mixed up with a bad woman."

"Eve?" Alan suggested. "Since we're following on from the snakes metaphor."

"Maybe you're thinking of Lisa?" Gordon amended.

"Yeah!" Alan snickered. "She's pretty hot."

"Alan!" Grandma scolded.

"If Virgil were carrying on with her," Gordon said, warming to his theme, "then he'd be playing with fire."

"I'll say," Alan agreed. "He'd sure be in danger if Butch caught them out."

"Yeah. We saw the way he went for Muzz. If Virgil's fooling around with Lisa then he's sure to get burnt."

"Yes!" Alan crowed. "I think we're on to something. C'mon, Scott. Own up. You're trying to give Virgil an alibi."

"Will you two get your minds out of the gutter!" Scott demanded. "I can categorically state that whatever's happening to Virgil, it's nothing like that. He is not enjoying himself."

"Not if Butch has found him and Lisa together."

John glared at his kid brother. "Does this mean that you're starting to believe in ESP?"

Alan jutted out his lower lip in defiance. "No."

"Then be quiet." John turned back to Scott. "So what can you tell us about this woman? Who is she?"

Scott threw his hands up helplessly and his cushion fell onto his lap. "I don't know! I have absolutely no idea."

"Well… we'll forget about her for the time being. What is Virgil feeling?" John asked.

"Feeling?"

"Is he feeling out of control?"

"Well…" Scott thought. "No… I think he thinks he's in control." John looked surprised as one of his theories went out the window. "But I'm feeling out of control, because I can't help him."

"I can understand that... Then what is he feeling?"

Scott frowned. "Fear."

"Fear? Virgil!?"

"Yes," Scott nodded. "He's frightened."

"Frightened?" Gordon looked surprised. "Of what!?"

"The heat!" Scott exclaimed. "The fire!"

"Is it something to do with welding?" Grandma suggested. "Did a welding torch cause a fire at ACE and that's why they've had the emergency shutdown?"

"Where do snakes come into it?" Gordon asked.

"Scott said it was a metaphor... A welding hose?"

"I don't know," Scott admitted. "I just – don't – know…" He clenched his fists in frustration. "Can't you find out anything?" he begged his father.

"No," Jeff responded, equally irritated by the lack of information. "I've tried both of Virgil's phones as well as ACE's. I've tried Hamish's direct line and his mobile. I've tried his PA's direct line and Olivia's cell phone. I've even tried to contact some of his friends!" He thumped his desk in an expression of his frustrations, "we're going to have to get Hamish a telecom wristwatch."

"Wristwatch! Why didn't I think of that?" John rolled up his sleeve.

"Are you telling us," Gordon began, "that we've been stressing all this time and you never thought of contacting Virgil with your watch?"

"Uh…" John flushed. "No."

"Some communications expert you are."

"Since you were 'stressing' too," John hit back, "why didn't you think of it?"

"I was too busy worrying about Virgil."

"Does this mean that you believe Scott?"

It was Gordon's turn to be on the defensive. "I never said I didn't!"

"You never said you did!"

"Boys!" Jeff was on his feet. "Stop this!" He rolled back his own sleeve and tried to use his telecom, but his watch face remained blank. "Nothing."

He was startled when there was a cry from his eldest son. Not of panic, but definitely alarm. The blood pressure monitor went flying as Scott grabbed at the cushion as if he hoped to haul it back from the brink of death. "He's fallen!"

"What!" Grandma grabbed his arm. "Virgil's fallen?!"

"Yeah... He's fallen... He's in real trouble now. He's hot... His hands… My hands…" Scott held them out, palms up. "They're burning…"

Everyone crowded around his seat. Even Jeff left his desk so that he could look down on his son's hands… His son's shaking, red, raw hands…

Grandma's hand went to her mouth. "Oh, my!"

John gulped. "Oh, heck…"

"We need to know what's going on…" Jeff ran back to his videophone. "And we need to know now!"

"This is getting too creepy for me." Gordon gave a dramatic shiver. "We have just entered the _Twilight Zone_."

Alan gave a dismissive snort, amazed at his family's gullibility. "They're friction burns. I've got one too." He rolled up the leg of his pants. "See? We got them when I tackled him onto the carpet."

"No…" Scott shook his head. "No… He's in trouble, big trouble." He used his sleeve to cuff away fresh beads of sweat on his forehead. "He's burning up!"

Jeff slammed his hand down on the desk after another futile attempt to contact ACE. "We need answers!"

"If only Th-Thunderbird Five was in orbit," Gordon commented. "Then John could listen to the emergency services' radio."

"Could you do that anyway, John?" Jeff asked.

"No. Not quickly anyway."

Gordon retrieved his walking stick. "Which of Virgil's friends have you tried, Dad?"

"Only those I know personally or whose numbers I could get from ACE's database. That's the Crump's home, Butch's mobile and Bruce's landline."

"I've got Lisa's mobile number. My phone's in my room. I'll go get it." Gordon took off at something close to a run, his walking stick helping to push him along. He was back a short time later with the phone to his ear. "She's not answering… You've got your staff trained too well."

"So now what do we do?" Scott asked. "Fly to the States and get there too late?"

"If we do, you're not piloting, Scott," Jeff warned.

"But..."

"No. Last time, once we knew you were okay, Virgil passed out. I'm not taking the chance of that happening to you when you're at the controls of a plane."

"I could send Lisa a text…" Gordon suggested. He stopped, his thumb hovering over the keypad. "What do I say? That Scott's fried his telepathic link with Virgil?"

"Stick to the truth," Grandma advised. "Tell her that your father's computer says that there's an emergency at ACE, but that he can't get hold of Hamish or Virgil to find out what's going on."

Gordon did as she suggested and then pressed send. "Done it."

"Bruce would probably be more likely to know what's happening because he's a company first aider," Jeff remembered. "But I didn't have his mobile. Does anyone know it? Mother?

"No."

"Scott?"

"No…"

"John?"

"No, I don't have it. But I can get it. …" John stood. "Let me at your computer, Dad."

"What are you going to do?"

"Hack into Virgil's phone book…"

_To be continued…_


	30. A Quiet Rescue

**30: A Quiet Rescue**

When Virgil's harness took hold, only a couple of metres above the furnace, it felt as though someone had saved him by grabbing him about the chest. He hung in mid-air, gasping for breath, grateful that he'd stopped falling, and aware that someone was yelling something into his earpiece. He looked at his hands, which were raw and bleeding from where he'd tried to try to stop his descent and tried to tell himself that he was lucky.

Loosened by sweat, the serum from burst blisters and the use of a rope not designed for abseiling, the Munter knot had slipped. Virgil examined it with the forlorn hope that it might help him escape, but only centimetres of rope and the safety lifeline stood between him and a fiery death. Knowing that to stay hanging above the crucible furnace was akin to committing suicide, he reached up and grabbed the rope again. His hands rebelled, but, gritting his teeth against the pain and groaning with the effort, he attempted to pull himself up to safety.

But his slick hands held no traction and any strength he had left abandoned him. He fell back...

...And Virgil realised that he could do nothing to save himself.

---F-A-B---

"Butch!!" Lisa screamed when she saw her husband fall, and then watched with sick relief as the rope took hold, swinging him about. She grabbed her boss's sleeve. "Is he all right? Please tell me he's all right!"

"Butch," Hamish Mickelson placed a comforting arm about her and spoke into his microphone. "Butch, can you hear me?" He could feel Lisa's trembling as they waited for a reply.

"…Yeah… C'n hear ya, Mr M."

Hamish closed his eyes in a brief moment of relief. "Good. Are you hurt?"

"Nah. 'M stuck but." Those watching looked on as Butch grabbed the rope that suspended him below the gantry and attempted to right himself. As he swung about, his legs passed dangerously close to the lower man's head.

"Careful!" Hamish warned. "You nearly kicked Virgil then…"

"I did?" The big man tried to look down and was hampered by his PPE. "'Ow is he?"

"Virgil!" Hamish asked the microphone. "Can you hear me?"

There was a moment's frightening silence. Then… "I… I hear you, Unc… Hamis…"

"Are you hurt?"

"… No…" There was some hesitancy in Virgil's reply. "… Hot…"

"I know. Hang in there… I mean, hold on…" Hamish cursed the English language. "You'll be all right, Virgil. Bruce and Greg will have you out of there soon."

---F-A-B---

When Butch fell, Greg and Bruce found themselves in a quandary. They already had Max Watts between them on the stretcher and they knew that it was vital that he was handed over to the paramedics waiting beyond the suffocating heat. But it was equally important to return to help the two men suspended over that pot of molten metal. Virgil in particular had been exposed to its high temperatures for a dangerously long time.

"Come on," Greg grunted. "Let's get rid of Max and then we can get back."

Treading carefully, aware that one tremor too many along the gantry had the potential to send either of the two trapped men falling to their deaths, Bruce and Greg retraced their steps along the gantry until they were able to hand the Production Manager over to two paramedics. Then they turned back.

Bruce looked over the edge of the platform. "Virgil, can you hear me?"

"Yeah..."

"Put your hands into your armpits. It'll help protect them from the heat." After an anxious wait to see if Virgil understood, Bruce was relieved to see his friend do as he was told. "Good... Look, we're going to have to get Butch up here before we can pull you out. Don't panic. We won't take long."

"Don't be so sure," Greg muttered. "These ropes are all tangled up together. They must have spun about each other when they fell."

"Oh, great..." Bruce knelt down to examine the three ropes, twisted together like a nest of snakes. "How do we handle this? We can't swing them back the other way in case that knot holding Virgil slips."

"His safety line should hold him."

"Should being the operative word. What if it doesn't? What if the heat's weakened the carabiner or the rope?"

"Then you'd better think of a better alternative and you'd better think fast!"

---F-A-B---

The two paramedics carrying Max Watts had reached the factory floor. "Here," Hamish handed Lisa his headset microphone. "Keep listening. Yell if anything happens." He hurried over to where the ambulance officers were working on the invalid. "How is he?"

Watts' heat-resistant overalls had already been cut open, he'd been placed into a cooling bath, and cold compresses had been applied to his head, neck, armpits and groin. "Not good," one of the ambulance officers grunted. "Someone said that he'd been suffering from influenza?"

"Yes." Hamish watched as an IV for rehydrating fluids was introduced into his Production Manager's arm. "I was only informed at morning tea. If I'd known I would have insisted that he go home and then we could have avoided all this."

A second IV was inserted. "Has his family been notified?"

"No... I'll do it now." Hamish felt his pockets. "Bother! I've left my phone on my desk." He knelt down so he was close to his employee's ear. "You'll be all right, Max. Don't worry about ACE. You concentrate on getting better."

With no way of knowing if he'd been heard or understood, Hamish took a step towards his office before a shout from someone in the vicinity of the furnace pulled him up short. He turned, indecision taking over as two sets of loyalties clashed; one to a long serving, faithful employee; the other to the son of his employer and friend. The fact that another employee was also in trouble helped bring him to his decision. "Olivia!"

His personal assistant hurried over. "Yes, Mr Mickelson?"

"Look, I'm sorry, I don't want to ask you this, but would you ring Mr Watts' family and tell them that he's being taken to the hospital? I'd do it, but..." He indicated the dramatic scene beyond them.

Olivia hesitated, casting an anxious look over her shoulder to where two silver clad bodies hung in the red glow. "Yes, Mr Mickelson, I'll do that for you... Uh, what about Virgil and Butch's families? Do you want me to call them too?"

He gave her a grateful, if worried, smile. "Thank you, but no. Lisa's Butch's next of kin and I think I should be the one to call Virgil's father." He sincerely hoped that it wouldn't be with bad news. "Perhaps you could bring my phone back when you've made the call? It must be on my desk."

"Yes, Mr Mickelson."

Olivia hurried away. A part of her dreaded her task, while the rest of her was glad to not to have to bear witness to what could turn into a ghastly tragedy. It was, she reflected, like a car accident. Horrific to watch, but something you couldn't turn away from; no matter how much you wanted to.

Hamish looked upwards and indecision gnawed at him again. "I should really go to the hospital," he muttered.

"Mr Mickelson?" It was Winston Patterson. He'd lost his _joie de vivre_ and now seemed unnaturally solemn. "You're needed here. Let me go with Mr Watts."

"Are you sure?"

Winston nodded and leant closer. "I know who Virgil's father is," he whispered, "and I know Mr Tracy would want you to stay with him. But someone should go with Mr Watts, and I can do that. I can support the family when they arrive."

"Thank you," Hamish clutched Winston's arm gratefully. "We won't forget this."

"Only please, _please_, let me know the _instant_ you have those poor boys out," Winston begged, returning to some of his famed histrionics. He held up his cell phone. "I picked it up when I ran out of my office," he added, sounding almost apologetic. "I'll keep it here," he put it into his breast pocket, "next to my heart."

"I'll make sure you're the first person we contact when this is all over..." Mickelson told him. "Now get going," he instructed, "or else the ambulance will be going without you." He retrieved a second two-way radio from a storage cupboard and strode back over to Lisa Crump. "Have I missed anything?" he asked, donning the headset.

She shook her head, her beautiful face creased into lines of deep worry. "No. We've been trying to talk to them, to keep them positive... But Virgil's barely answering."

Despite the fiery scene before him, an icy chill seemed to slither down Hamish Mickelson's spine. "Virgil? Can you hear me, Son?" He paused. "It's Mr Mick... It's Uncle Hamish."

"'Ncle Hami..."

Hamish gave a sigh of relief. "How are you feeling?"

"...Hot..."

"I know. They're doing their best to get you out of there... You'll be pleased to know that Max Watts is on his way to hospital. Winston's going with him."

"...G'd..."

"You've probably saved his life," Hamish continued, hoping he wasn't speaking prematurely. "Your workmates and ACE have a lot to thank you for," he added, trying to remain positive, "I can see that once this is all over, we're going to have to have another presentation."

"…Mmm…"

"Maybe your father will be able to attend this time… Virgil...?"

Virgil was silent.

"Stay with us, Virgil!" ACE's General Manager ordered. "Don't go to sleep!"

"...Tell..." Hamish could almost hear Virgil try to lick his parched lips. "Tell – Sc'tt – 'm – ssszor'y."

"What was that, Virgil? Did you say that you want me to tell Scott that you're sorry?"

"...Ye..."

"Sorry for what? Why are you sorry?"

"...Wha'... Whad'm – doin' – to – 'm..."

"What you're doing to him?" Hamish frowned. He was growing concerned that his young friend was beginning to lose his grasp on reality, and was close to losing consciousness.

"Y – tell – 'm – 'f – I – can'd…"

"Don't talk like that," Hamish begged. "It won't be long and you'll be able to tell him yourself."

"What is he sorry for?" Lisa asked.

"I don't know," the General Manager admitted. "We'll ask him later," he added in a continuing effort to appear optimistic. He diverted his attention back to the other stricken man. "How are you, Butch?"

"'Kay, Mr M. ... Don' worry 'bout me. ... Keep talkin' t' Virgil."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah." But the big man was sounding weaker than he was letting on. "You talk t' 'im, Liesl. Th'n I can listen t' you too."

Lisa glanced at her boss and Hamish nodded. She took a deep breath. "Okay, Honey... Virgil... It's Lisa... Can you hear me?"

"...Yeah..."

"Good..." She smiled and the smile took the edge of worry out of her voice. "What a way to start your last week at work, huh?"

"...Mmmm..."

"No wonder you're going to live with your father. After this he probably won't want to let you out of his sight..."

...

"...just in case you were off doing something dangerous..."

...

"And Mrs T will want to wrap you up in cotton wool..."

...

"And your brothers will probably want lock you away somewhere isolated so you can't escape."

…

"Maybe it's good you're going to live on an island? You'll be miles from anywhere. Miles away from danger."

…

"You'll be safe…"

…

"Virgil…?" Lisa's voice caught. "Oh, Virgil. Please say something...!"

---F-A-B---

"Well, Bruce," Greg asked. "What's your suggestion?"

"Butch is the problem, right?" Bruce replied. "We can't pull Virgil out until we've got Butch out of the way and we can't get Butch out of the way because the ropes are twisted." He bit his lip. "So... So the best thing we can do is attach another safety line to Butch, release the one he's hanging by, and then lift him up."

"And how are you going to attach another safety line? We can't reach him."

"Lower it down to him and hope he can attach it."

"Okay," Greg agreed. "That should work, if..." He stopped. "Butch, did you hear Bruce? Do you think you can attach another line to your harness?"

"...Yeah... Courze."

Bruce glanced at Greg. "Are you sure?"

"...SSShure..."

"He's not sounding good," Greg muttered, before he raised his voice again. "Okay, Butch, we're going to lower the line. Get ready to catch it..." The rope snaked downwards. "Here it comes... Can you grab it?"

"...Yeah..." But Butch's hand, when he reached out, looked heavy and clumsy. It seemed to be more by accident than design that managed to snare the rope.

"Good." Greg congratulated him. "Now, can you clip it to your harness...? Don't release the other one yet!" he added as a sudden, terrifying scenario sprang to mind. "Not until I tell you to!"

"...Clip t' 'arness."

"That's right... Clip it to your harness... Not there," Greg advised when he saw Butch attempt to slip the carabiner over a strap instead of through the metal holding-ring... Do you understand me?!"

"...Clip t' 'arness." Working slowly, Butch shifted the carabiner from the synthetic strip to its correct position. It gripped and held. "...Clip t' 'arness."

"Has he got it on properly?" Bruce asked.

"I don't know," Greg admitted. "I don't know that we dare trust him to release the other one."

"I don't know that he's capable of releasing it," Bruce amended. "He's going downhill fast."

"If he's going downhill," Greg growled. "I hope that doesn't mean that Virgil's already at the bottom..."

---F-A-B---

"Mr Mickelson! Mr Mickelson!" Olivia, having finished her distressing phone call, hurried over to where she'd last seen her employer. "Lisa! Have you seen Mr Mickelson? I've got his phone."

"What?" Lisa, who'd been caught up in her unsuccessful attempts to get some response out of Virgil, looked around. "He was here a minute ago."

"But where is he now?"

"Don't know." Lisa was more concerned about what was happening above them than the whereabouts of a missing General Manager.

Olivia followed her co-worker's gaze. "How are they?" she asked. "Are they close to getting them out?"

"They want to clip a new line to Butch's harness and then release the old one so he's not tangled with Virgil's lines," Lisa explained. "But they... They don't think..." She gulped. "They don't think he can... ... And Virgil isn't... ... And they're both getting weaker... ... And I can't think of what to say..." All the morning's stresses and worries overwhelmed her and she burst into tears.

"They'll be all right, Lisa." Olivia placed a comforting hand on the other woman's shoulder "Remember that Virgil didn't give up on you when you were in trouble, so don't you give up on him. And as for Butch..." she gave what she hoped was a light-hearted chuckle. "It's obvious that he loves you so much that he'd walk over hot coals for you… and a furnace isn't much different."

Lisa sniffed.

"Come on," Olivia encouraged her. "Those guys need you to be strong at the moment. You can bawl your eyes out later... Only let's make sure they're tears of happiness... Okay?"

Lisa sniffed again. "Okay."

"Good." Olivia looked around and wondered once again where Mr Mickelson had disappeared to.

A cell phone rang. Annoyed at its unwelcome interruption Olivia switched it off before, a split-second later, she realised what she'd done. "Oh, no!"

Lisa, concentrating on reassuring Butch and Virgil, wasn't listening. But Nancy from the paint bay was. "What's the problem, Olivia?"

"That was Mr Mickelson's phone!" Olivia wailed. "It was Mr Tracy ringing! It might have been important! I should have answered it! I could have told him what's happening…!" She examined the phone. "It's locked and I can't turn it on again!!" She looked about her in frustration, trying to find her boss. "Where is Mr Mickelson!?"

---F-A-B---

Bruce swallowed. "There's nothing else for it. You're going to have to lower me down, Greg."

"What!? Have you done anything like this before?"

"No..." Bruce gave what he hoped was a confident grin. "But how hard can it be? You're the one who'll be doing all the work."

"No, he won't," said the voice that intruded into their conversation. "You'll be helping him, Bruce."

Both Bruce and Greg turned, surprised by the presence by another on the gantry. At first they didn't recognise the newcomer, but then realisation dawned. "Mr Mickelson?"

"What do you mean, Hamish?" Greg asked.

"I mean," Hamish Mickelson, dressed in a thermal suit complete with full body harness, gave a grim smile, "I'm going to rappel down."

Bruce's jaw dropped. "You're what!?"

"Jeff Tracy and I used to go rock climbing in our younger days when we were in the Air Force," Hamish explained as he tied the required knots and ensured they were secure. "It's just like riding a bicycle."

"No disrespect intended," Greg protested, "but that was years ago. Do you think this is a good idea?"

"I think it's a better idea than letting Bruce go down when he's got no experience."

Bruce stood to one side, trying to decide if he agreed with his boss because it was a genuinely good idea; or if it was because he was terrified by the thought of stepping off the end of the gantry.

"Don't worry, Greg," Hamish was saying. "I'm sure I can remember what to do. Now..." he looked over the edge, "I have to ensure that Butch is tethered securely with the new safety line and then release the old one? Am I right?"

"Unless you've got a better idea, yes."

"Right. Keep an eye on my line and make sure it doesn't tangle with the others." Hamish Mickelson lowered himself over the edge and dropped down until he was level with Butch. Working quickly and efficiently, he tied off his Munter knot and then unclipped and re-fastened Butch's new safety line. "How are you, Butch?" he asked, satisfying himself that the rope would hold for the return journey.

"'M 'kay, Missta..."

"Good," Hamish interrupted. "Save your strength. Cross your arms across your body... That's good. Now keep them like that; I'm going to release your original line..." He unhooked the old carabiner and Butch swung free as the new line took hold.

Someone screamed.

As some of the tension left his rope, Virgil had dropped closer to the red hot metal. His arms fell limply to his sides…

…And he made no apparent effort to move them.

A ripple of alarm washed through the crowd waiting below.

"Pull Butch up!" Hamish ordered. "Get him out of here!"

"What about you?" Greg puffed as he and Bruce hauled on the heavy weight.

"I'm going down to check on Virgil..."

---F-A-B---

In spite of the muffling effects of his hood, the sizzle of cooling metal, the buzz of anxious people below, and the never-ending frantic chatter in his earpiece, Virgil could hear a beeping noise coming from the vicinity of his wrist. Something deep in his subconscious told him that it represented a link to reassurance, support, and safety; but his heat-burdened mind couldn't remember what, if anything, he was supposed to do about it.

So he ignored it.

Looking at the red, hazy world through his hood's visor, he felt like a goldfish trapped in a bowl. It was so hot! A heat unlike any he'd experienced before. A searing heat totally different to the tropical warmth of Tracy Island; where, if you got too hot, you could retire to the shade of a palm tree with an iced drink and the knowledge that you would soon cool down. But this… Nothing could offer you relief from this excruciating heat…

Virgil gulped for air, even though there appeared to be little oxygen in the stifling hood. Surely, he reasoned, surely if he could remove this fishbowl from off his head then he'd be able to cool down and maybe even breathe? Cool, refreshing air... He couldn't even remember what it was like. His arms felt leaden and by the time he'd worked out how to move one of them he'd forgotten what he'd planned to do with it.

Below him a vat of red heat waited to catch him. His head cleared enough to realise that he didn't want to go down there.

He could hear voices. A name was being repeated over and over again that seemed, somehow, familiar; but he couldn't place the unknown person's identity.

"_Virgil..._"

He was dehydrated. His body was no longer producing perspiration to cool it down. His head was throbbing and he felt dizzy and nauseous. His sight grew fuzzy, the world turned black, and then lightened as he regained some out-of-focus vision. His legs were tingling; as were his arms... But he had no feeling in his hands… Not that that worried him.

Virgil was past the stage of realising that he was in big trouble.

A blurry, silver shape swum into view and he heard that name spoken again.

"_Virgil?"_

And again.

"_Virgil!"_

One... two... No, four... Eight eyes swung into his field of vision.

"_Can you hear me, Virgil? It's nearly over. We can pull you out." _Hamish Mickelson looked upwards. _"Any moment now... Nod if you understand."_

Nod? Wasn't that something you did with your head? Some kind of complicated up-down movement? But whatever string it was that pulled his head up appeared to have been severed.

The multiple-eyed, out-of-focus creature was doing something behind him. _"Thank heaven for small mercies. His oxygen cylinder's not overheating."_

"_Good… Is he responding, Mr M?"_

"_No, Bruce. He's conscious; but only just. You've got to pull him out now!"_

"_We've got to get Butch clear."_

"_Just get him out of the way, someone else can help him. Virgil can't last much longer."_

"_Butch's able to crawl... The man's as strong as an ox... No! Don't help us, Butch. Get out of the way!"_

"_Gotta help ya. Gotta help my pal."_

"_Get out of here and go and get cool!"_

"_Greg!!"_ Someone had turned the volume up on the soundtrack of his tiny world and Virgil felt the sound reverberate through his head. _"Get him out NOW!!"_

The world swayed. The fourteen fuzzy eyes appeared and then disappeared. The scene shifted. Strangely that bed of red below him, the one that looked so soft and inviting, seemed to be receding into the distance. There was pressure on his arms, under his arms, against his waist, his legs... Pressure slid down his spine. The world's orientation changed. Faces swum in and out of view. There was something hard beneath him, and then he felt as if he were floating on his back. The world drifted by and then there was pressure on his back again.

"_Get that suit open..."_

"_Where're those cold compresses?"_

"_Gotta get fluids into him now..."_

"_He's so dehydrated that I can't find the vein... Got it!"_

"_Can't find the other... Two IVs won't be enough. Can you find a vein in his leg?"_

"_Look at his hands..."_

"_Never mind his hands; we've got to get his temperature down. What is it...?"_

"_39.8…"_

"_Too high…"_

Something cool had been placed on his forehead. He could feel people touching him all over his body and water; lots of cool refreshing water. He could hear someone sobbing. He could hear someone keening his name over and over again...

His name?

"_Virgil! Come on, Virgil. You've got to be all right. Your father will never forgive me if something happens to you."_

"_Mr Mickelson? You need to have something to drink. Here's a bottle of water... Come and sit down."_

"_Think of all your plans. Think of your family..."_

His family?

"_Please, Mr Mickelson, come away! Let the paramedics look after him."_

"_What's his temperature now?"_

"_39.6. It's dropping… He's lucky he's young, fit, and strong."_

"_Here's your phone, Mr Mickelson. I'm sorry, but I've locked it. I think Mr Tracy was trying to reach you."_

Mr Tracy!

Virgil attempted to open his eyes. At first the glare was too much for him, magnifying his headache and he snapped them shut again.

No… He'd have to open them sometime. He was curious about all the activity about him. All those sounds… All those voices…

"Can you hear me, Virgil? Can you open your eyes again?"

Virgil, with some reluctance, complied. He blinked against the light, but it didn't seem to hurt as much as last time.

Slowly things resolved themselves into some kind of logic. He knew the face of the man standing beside him; looking down with an anxious expression. He knew the people who were drenching themselves in water. He didn't know the men who were caring for his hands. He knew his head was killing him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

A paramedic, _(That's who those people are!)_, moved closer so that Virgil could see him more easily. "Would you like to try drinking something?"

Virgil nodded and let himself be supported as he took his first sips of life-giving water.

Uncle Hamish was patting him on the shoulder. "You did well, Virgil. Now relax, everything's going to be all right."

"How's Mr Watts?"

Virgil didn't know where his voice had come from; if it was his. He hadn't been planning on speaking and the words seemed to pop out of nowhere. But wherever they did come from, Uncle Hamish seemed to be pleased to hear them… Even if his response was less than positive. "I don't know. They've taken him to hospital. But it's thanks to you that he was rescued alive."

Virgil started to take in more of his surroundings. He realised that the overalls had been cut away and that a light material had been placed over his body. Someone was continuously spraying him with water to keep the sheet wet, while someone else was fanning him with a large piece of cardboard. He was partially submerged in cooling liquid in a shallow tub and the excess water from the spray was collecting around him. He breathed in and felt the clean, cool oxygen fill his lungs from the mask that was over his face. An electric fan was wheeled up beside him and switched on.

Virgil was beginning to feel better already.

He was surprised to realise that Uncle Hamish was dressed in a thermal suit which, in contrast to the General Manager's usually neat appearance, hung open and dishevelled. Not only that; he appeared to have been doused in water… Kind of like Bruce and Greg, who were sitting on the bottom steps that led up to the gantry. Butch was just as wet, but he was standing and Lisa had him in such a tight embrace that it was almost as if she'd welded them together.

Somewhere off to the right, a phone rang and Louis, carrying the instrument in his hand rushed over to the steps. "Hey, Buzz! Your phone's been going crazy…"

"Let it," Bruce said, in between gulping down mouthfuls of water.

"I have been letting it. _And_ Butch's. _And_ Virgil's. It was like every phone in the locker-room was on some kind of relay. One would stop and then the next would start!"

"What were you doing in the locker-room?" Greg asked.

Louis looked a little ashamed. "I didn't want to see anyone get cooked, so I, er, waited in there."

Bruce stopped guzzling long enough to eye his workmate. "How'd you get my phone out of my locker?"

"You gave me the combination once; remember?" The phone rang again and Louis held it out. "Do you want to answer it, Buzz?"

Bruce had finished downing one water bottle and was proceeding to tip the contents of the next over his head. "Tell them I'll call them back."

"Okay." Louis put the phone to his ear. "Bruce Sanders pho…" He looked surprised. "Uh, yeah… Just a minute." He wandered over so he was able to crouch down next to Virgil, who was having another drink. "I don't know who it is, but he says he has to speak to you." He pushed the hands free button and held the instrument next to Virgil's ear.

Virgil still wasn't feeling quite _compos mentis_, but he knew there was something that he had to say and that this was the person he had to say it to. "I'm sorry, Scott."

"Virgil!" He heard his brother's frantic voice. "What the heck happened to you?"

"Scott…"

"Are you all right?!"

"'M'kay." Despite all the water he'd had to drink, Virgil's voice was still dry and raspy.

"You don't feel it!"

"You don't sound it!" This was a different voice.

"John…?"

"Where was the fire?"

"Fire…?"

"And the snakes!" That was Gordon. Clearly the brothers were either on a conference call or grouped around a videophone. "What's the story with the snakes?"

Virgil couldn't get his overheated mind around this. "Snakes…?"

"What were they? Some kind of tubing?"

"Gord…?"

"Never mind the snakes," Alan interrupted. "What's the story with the bad woman?"

"Al…?"

Virgil heard John say something about "I thought you didn't believe," before the telephone was removed from his ear.

"Boys," Hamish Mickelson said into the mouthpiece as he dripped water everywhere. "He's going to be okay, but your brother's got to go to hospital. Tell your father…"

"I'm listening, Hamish. What's happened? What's happened to Virgil?"

"We've had a bit of an accident here and ACE will have to have to shut down while there's a full investigation. The good news is if it hadn't been for Virgil's heroics there could have been a fatality."

"A fatality?!" There was genuine alarm in Jeff's voice and his sons, recognising his authority, knew better than to intrude into the conversation. "Who?"

"Max Watts," Hamish admitted. "He's in a bad way and Winston's travelled with him to the hospital. I'll go with Virgil, and once he's being looked after I'll find Winston and see how Max is. I know you'll be in a hurry to get here, so I'll phone your mobile and give you the full story when I have the facts."

"But what happened?"

"I'll tell you when I call back." Hamish could see that the paramedics were packing up in preparation to leave. "I've got to go now if I'm going to stay with Virgil. I'll call you soon. Don't worry, my friend. He'll be fine." He hung up on Jeff's querying, "Hamish…?" and smiled down at Virgil. "Your whole family will be in the plane faster than you can say _Aeronautical Component Engineering._"

Virgil had a suspicion that it would be a long time before he would be even willing to attempt that or any other phrase.

Hamish was speaking to the paramedics. "I'll meet you outside." He held up the phone saying: "I'll give this back to Bruce." Then he hurried away.

"Virgil…?" Louis hadn't left his workmate's side and now was looking at him with a confused expression on his face. "How did you know that was Scott on the phone?"

But Virgil declined to answer. He closed his eyes, relaxed back on the stretcher, submitted to the cooling spray, and allowed himself to be wheeled out into the waiting ambulance...

_To be continued on Virgil's last quiet day in a not so quiet year…_


	31. A Quiet Day

**31: A Quiet Day**

Virgil Tracy stood in the middle of his apartment and kicked at the floor in frustration. It was Friday; the day that was supposed to have been his last at Aeronautical Component Engineering. Instead he'd spent the past week in hospital, only being released into Hamish and Edna Mickelson's care last night, and he was definitely in no condition to return to work today.

He looked at his hands. They were encased in bulbous, clear, synthetic gloves that were one of the latest marvels of modern medical technology. Beneath these gloves, surrounded by a regenerative gel, were his burnt and scarred hands. This gel was supposed to help the body reconstruct damaged nerves, repair injured muscles, and replace displaced skin. He supposed that he should be grateful that he had access to this treatment, but he couldn't help feeling hard done by.

It left his hands practically useless.

Not only that, but the gel was a bright, lurid green. The kind of colour he would have dismissed from his artist's palette.

He had been assured that it was necessary to use the strongest gel to repair the damage that he'd inflicted on himself. The medical staff had also told him that as his hands healed, a process that would take at least six weeks, then the strength of the gel could be reduced; with an associated change of colour. They'd said that it was advisable for him to use his hands as much as possible in the interim to circulate the gel through the gloves and to stop his muscles and bones from seizing up through lack of use. Easier said than done when it was impossible to bend his fingers more than a few millimetres.

The gel had to be replenished daily, via an injection through the gloves, to replace that which had been absorbed into his tissues. It was only because Virgil had promised to return for one more treatment before leaving the States, and was going to have access to a qualified medical practitioner who could continue the treatment (Brains), that his doctor had been prepared to release him.

He'd left the hospital late yesterday afternoon after his last session, and had gone home with the Mickelsons. There he'd had to put up with Aunt Edna fussing around him, cutting up his food, and generally treating him like a child. That was until Uncle Hamish had reminded her that she was dealing with an adult man, not a little boy. After that she'd apologised and retreated into her shell; almost afraid to move, let alone speak.

The effect on a much loved friend had only served to increase Virgil's sense of frustration.

He'd declined the offer to stay the night and had asked to be taken home. It was to be his last night in his own place, and he intended to make the most of it. The wisdom of such a decision was called into question almost as soon as he'd stepped through the door. He'd thanked Uncle Hamish, said he'd be okay from here and that he'd see him tomorrow, and had dismissed the older man. Then, because there wasn't a lot else that he could do, he'd decided to turn in for the night. That was when he struck the first of many hurdles. He couldn't hold his toothbrush. He managed to wedge it between two sausage-shaped fingers, but the action of brushing kept on pushing the brush out of his mouth. In the end he gave up (theorising that one night with dirty teeth wouldn't result in them all falling out), pulled off his clothes, and fell into bed.

At least he'd managed to get a good night's sleep. Not that that had improved his mood the following day when he'd decided that breakfast would be too difficult to contemplate and instead tried to get dressed. With a bit of a struggle and some ingenuity, he'd got his pants on and done up. Socks had been more of a challenge, but he'd eventually succeeded. He decided to leave his shoes until later.

It was his shirt, or more correctly his shirt's buttons, which had caused him the most difficulties, and were the reason why he was standing in the middle of the floor feeling alone, annoyed, hungry and very, very frustrated.

He couldn't even take out his frustrations in the usual ways. He'd packed his stereo away last week, so couldn't listen to soothing music. He no longer had the manual dexterity to hold a paint brush.

And as for playing the piano…

When he'd awoken from the anaesthetic, he'd found his hospital bed surrounded by a worried family. They'd all listened closely when the surgeon had explained what the surgery had entailed and the ongoing treatment.

Typically it had been Gordon who'd provided a moment of levity during this serious discussion; even if this time it was unintentional. He'd asked the question that Virgil had been desperate to know, but too scared to ask. "Will he be able to play the piano when his hands are better?"

The surgeon had looked at Gordon as if the joker's reputation had preceded him.

Virgil looked at his hands. He _would_ get better, he told himself. He _would_ play the piano again…

His doorbell rang and, using his elbow to activate the opening mechanism, he slid it back.

Alan sauntered into the room. "Oh, look. It's Shrek."

His youngest brother's comment did nothing to alleviate Virgil's mood. "Shut up."

"I thought it was the Incredible Hulk." Gordon tugged at Virgil's unbuttoned front. "Careful, Alan, you've already made him mad. He's split his shirt open."

"I can't help it if these things don't work properly," Virgil snapped, holding up his green, gloved hands. His frustration quotient went up another notch when Scott, without asking permission, started doing the buttons up for him.

"Why don't you wear something that doesn't need fastening?" John asked.

"Because this is what I'd always planned to wear when I flew out! I've packed everything else except for my work gear and I can't wear that today!"

"Yep. Gotta look your best for when the boss tells you what a great guy you are," Alan smirked.

"Why don't we forget that nonsense; you guys help me finishing packing my gear away; and then we'll take off straight for the island?" Virgil suggested.

"You know we can't do that," Scott reminded him. "There are a lot of people wanting the opportunity to thank you for all the lives you've saved."

"Hero number one," John teased. "You do realise that he's knocked you back into second place, Alan? He's saved more lives than you."

"At least I've saved lives," Alan rejoined. "Unlike some I could mention."

"True," John gave a dramatic sigh. "Do you realise, Gordon; that you and I are the only ones of our brethren not to belong to that esteemed club?"

"You did a pretty good job of keeping mine intact." Then Gordon grinned. "Doesn't matter. Once International Rescue's underway, I'm going to leave you guys in my dust."

The reminder that he was going to be paraded around in front of his friends and workmates with what appeared to be bunches of un-ripened bananas hanging off the ends of his arms had done nothing to improve Virgil's temper. "I wasn't aware it was a competition!"

"Virgil's right," Scott agreed. "We should be entering into this venture for the right reasons; because we can help people. Not to see who can put the most notches in his belt." He looked at his disgruntled brother. "Have you had anything to eat?"

Virgil hesitated. "No."

"No wonder you're in a bad mood." Scott, happy in his role as mother hen, went into Virgil's kitchenette. He opened the fridge and removed a container, which he sniffed. "Your milk's off."

"What do you expect? I've haven't been home for a week."

Scott pointed at his three other brothers. "Why don't you guys make yourselves useful and start packing things away while I make him breakfast?" He rummaged through the cutlery drawer.

"I've got a better idea," John walked into the kitchenette and pulled the spatula out of Scott's hand. "You help with the packing and I'll do the cooking."

Scott attempted to reclaim the spatula. "No way!"

John held the implement out of reach. "I'm a better cook than you!"

"No, you're not!"

"Yes, he is," Alan stated as Gordon nodded his agreement. "He's used to cooking for himself. If we let you do it, Virgil'll end up with Air Force rations. High in nutrition, but with no flavour. You're supposed to tempt invalid's appetites, not repulse them."

"I'm not an invalid!"

Momentarily down-heartened by his brothers' slurs on his culinary expertise and trying to hide it, Scott strode over to Virgil's keyboard. "Do you trust me to pack this?"

Glad that his brother had the sensitivity to realise that he wouldn't accept just anyone laying hands on his precious keyboard, Virgil agreed. "Let me help you."

"Oh, no you don't! You can sit on that stool and eat. We'll take care of the awkward stuff."

Virgil hesitated, reluctant to accept that there wasn't much he could do anyway. "It goes in the box on the top shelf."

"Here," John placed a mug on the counter. "Drink this coffee while you keep an eye on them to make sure they don't break anything."

Virgil stared at the mug with its wisps of steam rising from the freshly boiled liquid. "Ah… Sorry, but I'd rather have something cold. I've got to use both hands to support the cup when I drink, and the conducted heat hurts…" He saw concerned looks pass between his brothers. "But it's the only time my hands hurt," he added. "Honest!"

"Whatever the customer wants, the customer gets," John said easily as he took the coffee for himself and looked back in the fridge. "Uh… So long as the customer is prepared to wait. Alan, do you want to run down to the store and get some juice?"

"No, don't bother," Virgil sighed. "Just give me water, John."

"Coming right up." With a flourish John filled the glass from the tap and placed it on the counter.

Gordon was emptying out the few items left in Virgil's drawers. "On the way here we were working out who's related to whom. As far as ACE's concerned, Scott and I are your brothers and Alan's Jeff Tracy's son, but we don't know which family John belongs to."

"So I'm free to decide what's more important; fraternal or paternal loyalty," John said, finding some edible cereal and tipping it into a bowl. "Do you want fruit with this?" he asked, looking through the cupboards. "Do you have fruit?"

"I was planning on refreshing the larder Monday evening." Virgil 'pointed'. "Try in there."

"So which is it, John?" Gordon's eyes were twinkling. "Are you going to be a Tancy boy?"

John pretended to consider the decision. "Let's see… Do I want to be your brother...? Or Jeff Tracy's eldest son...?"

Alan laughed. "The one who crashed an Air Force jet."

"I didn't _crash_ it," Scott protested. Worried, Virgil glanced at his eldest brother, but Scott appeared happy to banter about the subject with his brothers. "I was shot down! And that was only because the guy got lucky!"

"Hmmn… Let's see…" John was pretending to think. "Father or brother…? Fraternal or financial…?" He leant over the counter and gave Virgil a condescending pat on the shoulder. "Sorry, Virg, but I can't let Alan inherit the entire estate, can I? He'd blow it all in two minutes flat."

"Would not." Alan was taking apart the gym equipment. "Why didn't you do your packing last weekend?"

"I was planning on doing it in stages throughout the week, _not_ spending time in hospital," Virgil reminded him as he tried to make his hands do something useful. "There was no point in packing something away if I was going to use it later. Everything I thought I wouldn't need is in those boxes." He nodded at the cartons stacked against the wall and then resumed his attempt to slide the glass off the counter and onto his left palm. He was just congratulating himself on succeeding when his tumbler slipped off, fell onto the floor and smashed, sending glass and water everywhere. "What's the use of being ambidextrous if you can't use either hand!?!"

"Don't worry about it," John soothed. "I'll clean it up." He was picking up the largest pieces of glass when an idea came to him. "Have you got any plastic mugs?"

This was the final straw. "Don't patronise me, John!" Virgil snapped.

"I wasn't…"

But the fuse had finally been lit, and Virgil was in full dynamite mode as he gave vent to his frustrations. "I hate this!"

"I…" John began, but was cut off.

"I can't brush my teeth…!"

"You…"

"…or feed myself!"

"I…"

"Or paint!"

"Virg…"

"Or play the piano!"

"You…"

"Do you know how frustrating this is!?"

"I know…"

"You don't know! You can't even _begin_ to imagine! How can you!? You can still use both your hands!"

John found the dustpan and brush and said nothing more as he bent down to start gathering up the glass shards.

"Virg…" Scott said quietly, resting a hand on Virgil's shoulder. "Calm down…"

But even he was unable to douse the flame. "Leave me alone…!" Virgil shook Scott's hand free. "Why don't you ALL just leave me alone? All I want to do is have a quiet day to pack up and get out of here. But instead of letting me do that, you're forcing me to go to this stupid presentation! Do you think I _want_ to stand up in front of everyone with these green blobs?" He waved his hands in the air. "Do you think I _enjoy_ being helpless? Do you think I _like_ having to rely on others to cut my food for me and feed me? Or having _you_ dress me like I was five-years-old again?! Do you, Scott?!?

"No…"

"Than why doesn't someone just put me out of my misery and be done with it?!"

"Gee, Virgil," Gordon deadpanned. "I can't begin to imagine what it's like for you."

Virgil glared at him. "Don't you start!"

"Imagine not being able to use your hands for what…? Six weeks?"

"Shut up, Gordon."

"Imagine having six weeks of being able to walk and talk. Imagine being able to go wherever you want to go. Imagine being able to hold intelligent conversations… Imagine having friends who actually want to _see_ you…"

Virgil stared at his brother.

"Imagine being injured saving a life and not as a result of a stupid mishap."

Virgil sagged as the fire was finally extinguished. "Point taken… This is only temporary, right?"

"Right," Gordon agreed.

"And I'm lucky it's not permanent."

"Right," Gordon agreed again as, barely relying on his cane for support, he walked over to his brother's side and placed his arm about Virgil's shoulders. "Remember that just because you have to ask for help doesn't make you useless. It's nothing to be ashamed of." He looked Virgil in the eye. "I owe you big time. You never gave up on me and I'm not going to give up on you. None of us would. Remember that."

"Yeah, Virg," Alan agreed. "If you need a hand, no patronising pun intended, you've got four of us willing to help. More than four when we get to the island. Just ask!"

John nodded. "Even if it's only as a sounding board for when you get really frustrated."

Ashamed at the way he'd behaved, Virgil looked down at what could be seen of his hands. "Sorry, John," he mumbled.

"Don't worry about it. That was nothing compared to what I've been known to dish out." John balanced the pan and brush on top of the rubbish bin. "I'm sure I'd be just as frustrated if I were in your shoes."

"When have you ever 'dished out'?" Alan enquired as he got a newspaper and started to wrap the broken glass in it.

"None of your business." John took another glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. "Now, at the risk of sounding patronising, hold out your left hand." Virgil did so, palm up, and John placed the glass on it. "Have you got it?" he asked when Virgil did his best to wrap his right fingers around the tumbler.

"I think so." John carefully withdrew his hand, allowing Virgil to hold the glass and take his first drink of the day. "Thanks. I needed that."

John tried rummaging through the cupboards again. "I can't find any fruit. Your milk's off. And the bread would probably heal your hands faster than that green slime… We could have let Scott make you breakfast." He glared at the dry cereal morosely. "This probably tastes like Air Force rations."

"Forget that," Scott suggested. "Let's go out for breakfast."

"Uh, uh. No way," Virgil refused. "I'm not going out in public with these." He indicated his hands and water slopped out of the glass and into his lap. He groaned.

"Especially not now." Grinning, Alan handed him a towel from the laundry hamper. "People will think we haven't got you housetrained." He snapped his fingers. "I've got it! Back in a moment." He ran out the door.

"What's he got?" Gordon asked.

"A short life span," John growled, "if he's not planning on helping us pack up here."

Scott was undeterred by Virgil's reluctance to head outside. "How about a drive-thru? Then you can eat in the car. And after the festivities we can come back here and finish packing. What do you say, Virg?"

It sounded like the best suggestion that anyone had had all morning and Virgil nodded. "Okay."

"Just so long as it's nothing deep fried, huh?" Gordon teased.

Virgil held the glass out so that John was able to take it from him, and slid off the stool. His sock-clad feet came into contact with the wet floor and he groaned again. "This is not my day." He dropped the towel onto the floor and trod on it to try to absorb some of the moisture.

"Here're some clean socks," Gordon held up a pair. "You might want to change before we head out."

Virgil, on the verge of losing his temper again, only just managed to refrain from snapping at his brother. "It took me half an hour to put this pair on."

"Give them here." Scott took the clean pair and Virgil, still only just managing to keep his cool, sat on the edge of his bed and submitted to having his big brother help him put on his socks and shoes. "How's that feel?"

"Better," Virgil admitted. He pulled at his collar. "Is it me or it hot in here?"

"The temperature hasn't changed." Scott was looking concerned. "Are you all right? You've gone red."

"I'm okay." Virgil wiped his brow and then tried to fan himself with his bulbous hands. "The doctors said it'll take a while for my internal thermostat to settle down. Until it does I'll get these temperature fluctuations."

"You mean hot flashes," Gordon grinned. He pretended to doff a cap and then picked up a newspaper. "Permit me to fan you, my Lady…" He saw a dangerous light in Virgil's eyes. "Master! I meant master!" he amended quickly, and started fanning his brother.

"If that didn't feel so good you'd be dead," Virgil growled.

"Well don't get too used to it. This is tiring."

"Thanks." Virgil accepted a damp towel from John and used it to mop his face, then, holding the cooling cloth against the back of his neck, he looked about his apartment. "There's still a lot to do. Why don't we order in and then we can carry on packing?"

Scott got off his knees and dusted his trousers down. "Don't you want to say goodbye to your friends?"

"They all visited me in hospital. I can give them a call later."

"What about everyone else? You do realise that this is the last opportunity that any of us are going to be able to accept any recognition in person for saving a life. Once International Rescue's operational we won't be hanging around long enough for thank yous, let alone awards. You want to make the most of it while you can."

"Yes," John agreed. "And don't you think that Mr Watts would like to thank you in person?"

"I doubt he'll be there." Feeling cooler, Virgil threw the towel in the direction of the laundry basket. "He's still in the hospital. Besides, I called in to see him when I was discharged." He snorted. "His primary concern seemed to be whether or not I'd ever be able to play the piano again. He didn't even say thank you for saving his life. He's just happy knowing that I'll be won't be at ACE when he's well enough to go back to work. You know he hates me."

"I'm sure hate's too strong a word," Scott soothed.

"Sorry, Scott, but you don't know the guy. I would have been gone from ACE a long time before now if he had found a legitimate reason for firing me."

"And if he'd done that, he'd be dead now," Gordon stated. "Well, if you're not going, I am. I'm not going to miss out on the opportunity to talk to Lisa face-to-face instead of by text. And I need one of these guys to drive me there… Who's going to volunteer?"

"I'd just like to see if Lisa's as beautiful in the flesh as she is on the video screen," John said. "I'll drive you, Gordon."

"Thanks."

Alan dashed back into the apartment. "Got them!" He put a shrink-wrapped packet on the counter and started ripping open the plastic.

"Got what?" Scott asked.

"Meal in a shake," Alan explained as he pulled the straw off one of the cartons and poked it in through the seal on the top. "There y'are, Virg. You should be able to hold and drink that without too many dramas." He tapped the rest of the cartons. "There's enough there to keep you going until we get you to the island and can work out a better solution."

Grateful for his kid brother's unexpected thoughtfulness, Virgil accepted the drink and the nourishment that it offered.

"Let's start thinking about how we can give you more dexterity," Scott suggested. "You might have to use your feet more to do things."

"Like eat?" Virgil asked. "I'm not that flexible."

"Tin-Tin could show you yoga," Alan suggested. "She's started taking lessons and she says it makes you more flexible."

This comment drew his brothers' attention away from Virgil. "How'd you know that?" John asked.

Alan gave a casual shrug. "We've been emailing each other."

"Now that you know what a goddess she is," Gordon smirked.

"That's all well and good," Scott rejoined. "But she's in Europe and Virgil's going to be on the island, so I don't think she'll be much help." He turned back to Virgil who was sucking up the last of the drink. "Have you got any ideas?" He took the empty container and put it on a box.

"Well…" Virgil frowned in thought. "Really, it's only my fingers that don't work. I've still got a full range of movements in my arms. My main problem is that I can't hold anything securely… I can hold small things between my fingers, but these gloves don't have a lot of grip. I can hold things between my hands like an apple or a sandwich, but for anything hot or messy…" He thought some more. "If I had something that could grasp a knife and fork then I could use my arms to manipulate movements about the x, y and z axes … But applying pressure might be a slight problem."

"What? For stabbing your food?" Alan asked.

"I can always push bite sized chunks onto a fork," Virgil continued, "or scoop with a spoon. It's getting it to an edible size that causes problems," he added, remembering last night and Aunt Edna. "I don't want to have to rely on everyone else to cut my food up before I can eat it."

"Low energy laser?" John suggested. "Something powerful enough to slice through a bit of steak without charring it?"

"Remembering that, if Scott's cooked the steak, charring it might improve the flavour," Gordon snickered. "Or you might need a stronger laser to puree it."

He received a baleful glare from his big brother, but apart from that Scott refused to dignify the comment with a response. Instead he turned back to Virgil. "Now you're talking. You obviously needed to feed your brain to kick-start it into action. From here on it'll be easy. You come up with the plans and between the four of us we should to be able to convert them into something useable."

Alan nodded. "Especially if Brains helps."

"Now that you know you're not going to faint in hunger," John looked at his watch, "don't you think it's time we headed off to ACE?"

Virgil decided that it would be better to face this particular challenge head on. "May as well. Alan, get those keys off the hook," he instructed.

"Which? These ones?"

"That's them. You can drive the Red-Arrow. Only pretend it's yours while we're at ACE, would you? No one there knows that I own it or that it was Butch's."

"The Red-Arrow!" Alan's face shone. "Do you mean it?"

"I think a world champion should be able to handle her…" Virgil grinned at their big brother, "so long as you ride shotgun and keep an eye on him."

Scott gave him a grin in return. "Deal."

---I-R---

---F-A-B---

Virgil's group, with John driving and Gordon annoying him by pretending to change gears with his walking stick, was the first to arrive.

"I think you've lost your car, Virg," John commented as he opened Virgil's door. "The kid's hijacked it along with Scott."

Virgil, trying to undo his seat belt, remembered his younger brother's excitement. "They've probably taken the long route so he can see how she performs."

John reached in and pushed the button that released the belt. "How does she perform?"

"Like a dream."

"Really? Do you think I could have a go later?" For all his protestations about his similarities with his blonde sibling, there was a similar gleam in John's eye at the thought of driving the classic car.

"You may as well," Virgil replied. "I'm not going to get the chance before I sell it back to the Crumps."

"Before you what!?"

Gordon spied his father, who was enjoying the winter sun in the carpark as he talked with a few of ACE's employees, some of whom were looking overawed at being engaged in conversation with their famous, wealthy boss. "Hi, Uncle Jeff!" he yelled.

Jeff looked around. "Hello, Gordon."

"We would have been here sooner." Gordon explained at the top of his voice, "but we had to dress Virgil first!"

Virgil felt his cheeks grow as hot as the crucible furnace. "Couldn't you have left him on the island?" he asked John.

"We did consider it, but decided that it wouldn't be fair on Kyrano and Brains."

"Great. You think more of them than you do of your own flesh and blood."

"Gordon." Jeff excused himself from the group and greeted his mischievous son with an angelic smile that nearly hid the twinkle in his eye. "And how is my honorary nephew? Still giving your family grief?"

"Well, you know how it is," Gordon grinned. "I can't let them forget how lovable I am."

"I'm so glad that you're Virgil's brother and not my son." Jeff said, continuing the charade. "I pity your poor father and brothers sometimes… That was quite a scare you gave them. I don't know how many grey hairs you gave your father, and as for what your brothers went through…" He gave a sombre shake of his head and then turned to another 'honorary nephew'. "How are your hands, Virgil?"

"Frustrating, but otherwise fine."

Jeff smiled. "Good. Where is, ah…" he hesitated as he tried to remember the family relationships, "my son and your brother?"

John was grinning as he watched the wheels turn in his father's brain. "Taken the scenic route… Dad."

Jeff chuckled. "So Alan's not an only child."

"Nope."

His father's comments had been enough to subdue Gordon into quiet introspection… For all of two minutes. "Here come the stragglers…" he yelled at the Red-Arrow as it pulled into a parking space. "Did you get lost?"

"Oh, wow, Virgil!" Alan enthused as he locked the Red-Arrow's doors. "This car's primo. Have you driven her, Dad?"

Virgil smiled at his brother's enthusiasm. "You've only been driving Butch's car for five minutes and you're already talking like him."

"I have driven her, Alan," Jeff admitted. "And you're right. She is 'primo'… Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have some things that I have to sort out with Hamish. I'll see you all inside. Your grandmother's already in there with Edna." He wandered off, joining another knot of Virgil's workmates and engaging them in further conversation.

"If it's not a stupid question," John began. "What took you guys so long? You left before us."

"In a squeal of tyres and with a _hearty hi ho, Red-Arrow_," Gordon quipped.

"It is a stupid question," Scott responded. "He insisted on taking the long route. Now he's talking about hiring the local track and putting it through its paces."

"She's a performance vehicle so you've should give her a bit of a workout once in a while," Alan responded, trying to appear casual even though he kept on stroking the Red-Arrow's bonnet. "Virgil's not going to be able to drive for the next few weeks, so I thought I'd do what I could to help out."

"Gee, thanks, Alan," Virgil deadpanned. "I appreciate you considering me like that… Hi, Bruce."

"Hi, Guys," Bruce Sanders greeted the Tracys. He looked at Virgil's green hands. "You realise that Lou'll take one look at them and start calling you Veggie again?"

Gordon snuffled a laugh. "Veggie?"

"After your grandma's secret drink." Bruce patted his friend on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Virgil, if he does call you that there are plenty of people in there who'll put him right."

The Tracys and Bruce slipped, almost unnoticed, into ACE's social club room, which was buzzing with Virgil's workmates and their families.

Scott looked around. "Ah! Food!" he exclaimed. "Be right back."

"He's got a radar that's linked directly to his stomach," Alan stated. "What do you suppose they've got to eat?"

"Why don't you go and have a look?" Virgil suggested. "Don't worry about me; I'm not going to be able to eat with any dignity anyway. I'll grab one of your drinks later."

"Don't give up yet," John said. "We'll work something out." He, Bruce, and his brothers wandered over to the table laden with finger foods and other snacks.

Scott came back, his hands full. "Hands out, Virg," he commanded, and helped his brother hold onto a plastic glass of orange juice. "Open wide." He popped a small savoury into Virgil's mouth. "How's that?"

Virgil chewed appreciatively. "Delicious." He glanced about to check that no one could overhear their conversation. "What we were talking about at my place... Are you okay with that crack Alan made about you crashing the plane?"

Scott grinned. "I was going to mention that when we were alone. I had a phone call from Brian Daniels the other day. He apologised for everything he said."

"Apologised?" Virgil had to admit to being surprised by the revelation. "Now?! But it's been nearly a year since you left the Air Force. What did you say?"

"That I appreciated the apology. After all, it's better late than never. We're going to… I'll tell you about it later…"

They'd been interrupted by the return of their brothers; Gordon in the lead. "Is Lisa here?" he asked.

Virgil craned his neck over the crowd. "Yes, there she is, over there." He pointed with his two green hands and orange drink.

"Great. I owe her an apology. I'm not planning on playing for sympathy so hold this will ya?" Gordon hung his walking stick off Virgil's right arm and walked away.

"Hey!"

Scott grinned at Virgil's indignation and unhooked the cane. "It must be a week for making amends. Come on; let's see what he's got to say for himself."

As they followed Gordon, Virgil was greeted by all his friends and colleagues. John, however, was more interested in the former WASP who, with a slightly rolling gait, was pushing through the crowd. "He walks just like a sailor..." His eyes narrowed, "I've had my suspicions that the only reason why he still uses a cane is so he's got something on hand he can use to trip us up. I think he's just proven my theory."

Gordon had reached Lisa who, talking with the wife of one of her co-workers, hadn't noticed him come up behind her. He waited until there was a lull in her conversation and then tapped her on the shoulder. "Ah... Lisa..."

Lisa turned. There was the briefest frown of confusion on her face before, with a joyful cry of "Gordon!" she threw her arms about his neck. Then, suddenly embarrassed by her over-familiarity she took a step back. "Sorry," she blushed.

"I'm the one who is supposed to be saying that," he protested. "I'd get onto my knees to beg your forgiveness, but I doubt I'd be able to get up again."

"Don't be silly," she told him. "You apologised months ago. I'd forgotten all about it... You look great. Where's..." She spied Virgil. "You made it!" she squealed, and Scott only just managed to rescue the orange drink before Virgil was tackled.

"I hope Butch didn't see that," Virgil laughed as he was released from the hug. "He might get the wrong idea about us..."

"We've already got the wrong idea," Alan teased.

Lisa giggled. "How are you, Alan?"

"Fine, thanks. Where is Butch anyway?"

"The last time I saw him, he was over there," she pointed, before rolling her eyes. "He'll be so excited that Alan Tracy asked after him." She grinned at Virgil. "I told you, you wouldn't be able stay away."

Virgil made a face. "These guys dragged me here against my will... I don't think you've met John..."

John treated her to a winning smile. "Hello, Lisa."

"Hello, John."

Virgil continued the introductions. "And you probably only saw Scott from across the room."

"And Butch made sure that I saw more of him than of you," Scott recollected. "Nice to finally redress that, Lisa. Virgil's told us lots about you."

She winked at Virgil. "I'm sure it's not all good."

"A lot of it has been..." Scott sought the right word, "intriguing. Virg has been feeding out enough to keep us curious"

"I'll bet." Lisa giggled again.

Gordon grinned. "But you'll give us all the gossip, won't you?" He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"Here," Scott held out the walking stick to its owner, "you'd better take this before you fall over."

"Thanks." Gordon accepted the cane and leant on it for support.

Butch came ambling over. "Here's my pal!" He gave Virgil what was, for him, a gentle punch on the shoulder.

Well practised in bracing himself against Butch's overly-affectionate greetings, Virgil managed to avoid staggering backwards. "How are you, Butch?"

"Fine. Been helpin' Mrs T."

"She'll appreciate that. Where is she?"

"In th' ki'chen with Mrs M." Butch guffawed. "They're tellin' th' caterers what t' do."

Virgil chuckled. "I can imagine."

"Hiya, Butch." Alan looked around to check no one was close enough to overhear. "I drove the Red-Arrow here."

Upon hearing that his hero had driven what had once been his pride and joy, Butch looked like a child who'd been visited by Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and both sets of doting grandparents in the same morning. "You drove th' Red-Arrow! Whatcha think?"

"She's primo," Alan enthused.

"I'n't she just," Butch said happily. "An' she's got even betta since m' pal here bought 'er."

"Unfortunately I've had to neglect her this past week," Virgil reminded them. "Butch... These three reprobates are my brothers Gordon, John and Scott. Although as far as ACE is concerned, John's Alan's brother and not mine."

"Hiya." Butch shook hands with the three Tracys.

"Geez, Butch. That's some grip you've got." Gordon massaged his hand. "Lend us some of your green goop, Virgil. I think he's squashed all the blood out of my fingers."

But Butch wasn't listening. He and Scott were locked in a minor wrestling match as they shook hands and stared each other down, neither willing to be the first to let go.

It was Bruce's reappearance that broke the stalemate. "I wonder when they're going to get the show on the road."

Virgil looked at him. "What show? What have they got planned?"

"I don't know. Mr Mickelson and Mr Tracy haven't told us minions anything."

"We could always do a bit of snooping," Gordon suggested. "Dad'll probably tell us."

"He probably won't," Scott rejoined, trying surreptitiously to massage the life back into his fingers.

"C'mon, fellas," Gordon spun about on his cane. "I need to stretch my legs anyway."

"I'd better keep an eye on them," Scott sighed. "Do you want your drink back, Virg?"

"Thanks." Virgil watched his brothers leave. "They won't find out anything. Not from Father or Uncle Hamish."

"Actually, Virgil," Bruce sounded uncomfortable, "we're glad they've gone. We wanted a word with you in private."

Virgil raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yes?"

"Yes," Lisa nodded. "We have to something to say to you, but not in front of your family."

"Why don' we shift?" Butch suggested. "Too many people 'ere."

Virgil felt his other eyebrow rise up. "You guys are being very mysterious." He followed them through a door and into the dead, empty factory.

Bruce looked at his friends and they indicated that he should be the one to take the floor. "Don't take this the wrong way, but we've been discussing you."

Virgil, not so much surprised by the revelation, but by the mysterious way that it was being revealed, looked between his friends. "Is that why it's not only my hands that have been burning?"

"We know that you've been looking forward to being part of this project of your father's all year," Bruce explained, "and that he's expecting you to be part of it, but we can't help thinking that you're making a mistake."

Butch nodded his agreement. "Big mistake."

"A mistake?" Virgil echoed. "What do you mean? Do you think I should stay at ACE? Look, I do enjoy working here, especially with you guys, but..."

"No..." Bruce held up his hand. "We've enjoyed working with you too..."

"We're going to miss you," Lisa interrupted.

"But we don't think you should work here either," Bruce continued. "Do you remember that I once joked that you must count saving lives as one of your hobbies? Well, and I'm not joking now, we think you should consider it as a profession. Become a fire-fighter, or paramedic, or something like that. Something hands on where you can make a difference to someone's life. You're in your element when you're helping people."

Virgil wasn't quite sure what he was hearing. "You mean a rescuer of some type?"

"Yes," Lisa nodded. "Look at all the people you helped this one year. There was me, and then everyone on that flight, and then the way you stepped in to stop the Skulz..."

"An' th' way y' risked y' neck t' save Mr W," Butch agreed.

"You and Bruce helped too," Virgil reminded him. "And Greg and Uncle Hamish."

"Yeah... But y' were the one 'oo went down the rope. Y' shouldn' be stuck ina factry or behind a desk. Y' need t' be out helpin' people!"

Trying to conceal his smile, Virgil finished his orange juice. "Well, thanks for the advice and, if things don't work out, maybe I'll take it. I'll definitely give it serious consideration while I can't do anything else."

The door to the factory opened. "Is this where you're all hiding?" Scott asked.

John gave a low whistle as he looked around. "I haven't been here in years. Is it me or has this place grown?"

"I told you this was one of the biggest plants of its type in the country," Virgil reminded him. "They rebuilt the entire factory eight years ago."

Alan tugged on Virgil's sleeve. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The furnace."

"Oh, that." Virgil attempted to point. "Over there behind that barrier."

"Can we see it?"

"There's nothing to see," Bruce told the youngest Tracy. "It's been turned off since Monday. The authorities won't let ACE start it up again until more safety measures have been put into place."

"Come on, Bruce. Show us," Alan pleaded. "You can tell us just how close Virgil was to the crucible. He can't remember."

"I'm not sure I want to," Virgil rejoined.

"No," Scott empathised. "Me neither."

"You want to see, don't you, Gordon?" Alan asked.

"Uh-huh. How about you, John?"

"Yep. Lead on, Bruce."

Bruce sighed. "Okay. But keep between the yellow lines. Everything might be turned off, but this can still be a dangerous place." He led four of the Tracy brothers away.

Virgil was going to follow, but he was held back by Lisa. "Can you wait a moment?" she whispered, looking furtive.

"Liesl..." Butch warned. "Y'll only embarrass him."

"No," she replied. "I need to apologise."

"Apologise?" Virgil's eyebrows were getting a workout this morning. "Apologise for what?"

"The other day... Monday... After you'd rescued Mr Watts, and Greg and Bruce had brought you back down to the floor again... And you were… ah… in the tub being cooled down... When they, er, they removed your PPE..."

"Yes..."

"Well... ah... I was holding Butch..." She put her arm about her husband and pulled him close. "I'd been so scared that he was going to be killed and I couldn't quite believe that he was standing next to me."

"Yes," Virgil repeated. "I think I remember seeing that."

"Well, I, ah, was also worried about you too... You looked so sick when they brought you down on the stretcher. I didn't even know if you were still alive... And your hands! They were such a mess...!" She glanced down at Virgil's green extremities. "I was scared that you wouldn't live. So I wanted to see if you were still alive. I had to know... So I watched the paramedics work on you. I... ah..." She turned pink. "I saw more than I should."

"Lisa, 'n me, 'n a whole lot of other people," Butch added.

Virgil felt himself grow hot and wondered if it was embarrassment or if his thermostat had gone haywire again. "You saw..."

"They had to remove your clothes to cool you down... And they removed... all your clothes."

"Oh." Virgil wasn't sure what else he should say.

"Before they covered you with the sheet and started dampening you down."

"Oh," Virgil repeated.

"I'm sorry," Lisa said.

Virgil rubbed his sleeve over his overheated forehead.

"See," Butch accused. "Y've embarrassed 'im, Liesl. Y' shouldn' 'ave said anythin'."

"Well... ah, Lisa..." Virgil cleared his throat. "Considering that I can claim to have actually undressed you, in a manner of speaking, and seen you topless, then I guess we're even."

"I'm sorry, Virgil"

"Don't be." Virgil shook his head. "We know it was perfectly innocent. Like the time that you were running semi-naked around my apartment."

Lisa gave a slightly nervous giggle. "And slept in your bed."

"And Grandma and I've got a lot of mileage teasing my brothers over that. We've kept them guessing all year. So we won't worry about Monday, okay?"

Lisa gave a relieved smile. "Thank you." The three of them started wandering over to where Bruce was showing the rest of the Tracys some of the highlights of the factory.

"Changing the subject completely," Virgil began, "I've been thinking about the Red-Arrow. I can't take it to the island with me; the sea air won't do it any good and there's nowhere to run it…"

"So ya still gonna work for ya father?" Butch interrupted.

"For the moment, yes," Virgil replied, slightly surprised that Butch was more concerned about his future than the car. "So what I was thinking was… what would you say to the three of us having joint ownership? I'll pay the insurance and legal stuff and use it whenever I'm in town, and the pair of you can take care of the day-to-day running costs and use it whenever you want. What do you think?"

The Crumps had stopped and were staring at him. "Ya lettin' us use ya car?" Butch asked.

"No, you're going to be using your car," Virgil corrected. "It won't do her any good keeping her locked up in a garage somewhere, so you'll be spending money on her to keep her running. I'd expect that my family would be able to use it as well as me, but that won't be very often. We'll make it all legal and if you'll feel better you can pay me a nominal amount, but it's not like I want or need the money. I just want to make sure that the Red-Arrow's looked after. And I know no one will look after it better than you two… Is it a deal?"

Butch was looking dazed. Lisa however got over her shock. She threw her arms around Virgil. "Oh, thank you!" He received a kiss that didn't go unnoticed by his brothers.

"Oh, yes," Alan snickered with a suggestive grin. "And what have you three been up to?"

Virgil had often wished that he was as good at coming up with quick-fire retorts as he was coming up with engineering solutions; especially when it came to teasing his brothers. Lisa however proved that she was a match for the Tracys. "I've just been telling Virgil how hot he is when he's naked." She smirked.

Virgil, immensely satisfied with the stupefied looks he was receiving from his brothers, gave a _'what else would you expect?'_ shrug.

"Virgil?" Scott queried.

Virgil ignored him and turned to Bruce. "Haven't you shown them the furnace yet?"

Bruce, who'd initially been as dumbfounded as the Tracys, had put two and two together and was now wearing a smirk of his own. "No. I was showing them the welder that nearly killed Lisa. This is the scene of your first triumph."

"_Our_ first triumph," Virgil corrected. "You were the first aider. I was only helping."

"I don't care who did it," Lisa said. "I'm just glad someone did something."

"Yeah," Butch agreed. "An' me. It's thanks t' y' two that I've still got m' girl." He squeezed his wife.

The eight of them continued on through the factory, stopping only when they reached the barrier that prevented anyone from getting too close to the crucible furnace.

Alan looked at the innocuous metal ball. "It doesn't look too dangerous."

"It's not when it's cold," Virgil told him. "They've moved it from where it was the other day. The crucible was right underneath us at the time." He pointed above their heads to a walkway over to the right. "That's the gantry Mr Watts was hanging from. I didn't have far to rappel."

"Till y' rope slipped," Butch recollected.

"How far did you fall?" John asked.

"I don't know," Virgil admitted. "From where I was it seemed as though I was caught only just above the molten metal." He gazed up at the furnace; his face creased in a thoughtful frown.

"From where I was standing down here, I'd say he was about three to four metres above the mouth," Lisa said. "What do you guys think?"

"I couldn't really tell from where we were," Bruce remembered.

"Nah," Butch agreed. "Seemed mighty close fr'm where I was. It was hot!"

Bruce nodded. "I'll say. Even up on the gantry, where in theory we were far enough away from the heat that our thermal suits should have protected us, I was in a sweat. Of course, that was probably nerves."

"I know I was scared stiff," Lisa added. "When Virgil stopped answering me I thought he'd died. You've no idea how relieved I was when Mr Mickelson said that he was still conscious."

"Mr M did all right for 'n old guy," Butch said.

Gordon chuckled. "Don't let Uncle Hamish hear you say that."

Butch looked embarrassed at his gaffe. "'E got down right next t' Virgil and helped 'im, 'nd th' heat 'ad knocked 'im out fast."

"True," Bruce agreed, "but Virgil had been hanging over the crucible for longer."

"Much longer," Lisa confirmed.

"I honestly thought you were going to be leaving ACE in a coffin, Virgil…" Bruce realised that his friend appeared to be miles away. "Virgil?"

Scott nudged his brother. "Are you okay?"

Virgil gave himself a mental shake. "Yes… I just remembered something."

"What?"

"That I'd better write Tuffas a letter of thanks for making such good PPE." Virgil looked at his hands ruefully. "So long as you remember to wear it."

"I wondered where you all were," a deep voice said, and they turned to see Jeff Tracy striding towards them. "The hospital just called. Max Watts is on his way here."

Virgil stared at his father. "He's coming? When I saw him yesterday he didn't look well enough to get out of bed."

"He was determined to attend," Jeff told him. "Even if it was going to mean discharging himself early. I told him that under no circumstances was he to do that and I've managed to arrange for an ambulance to bring him here. But I don't want him out of the hospital any longer than necessary, so we're going to start proceedings as soon as he gets here."

"Proceedings?" Virgil asked. "What proceedings?"

Jeff grinned, winked, and said nothing.

Scott turned his back on the cold, grey ball that had nearly been his brother's final resting place. "I'm sick of looking at that thing."

"I've never liked it," Virgil admitted. "Now I know why."

"I'm going to go and get something else to eat before 'proceedings' start," Bruce stated. "Anyone else coming?" He and the Crumps wandered away.

Jeff remained behind, looking up to where the drama had taken place less than a week ago. "The thought that I, even indirectly, might have been responsible for deaths, especially that of one of my own sons…" He gave a visible shiver. "It gives me the chills."

"It's done the opposite for Virgil," Gordon teased. "He gets hot flashes."

"Gordon…!" Virgil growled.

Jeff looked at him in concern. "Are you sure you're all right? You are a little red."

"I'm fine."

"Virg... You weren't thinking about Tuffas then, were you?" Scott accused. "You were thinking about something else. What was it?"

"Well… No, I wasn't..." Virgil hesitated. "I was thinking that I owed you a thank you."

"Me?" Scott looked surprised. "What for?"

"Catching me."

"Catching you?" Scott frowned. "When."

"When I was falling into the furnace."

Scott looked startled.

"You did catch me… Didn't you?"

"Yeah…" Scott uncomfortable at the admission, examined the skin that was peeling off his palms. "Well, I tried."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The two brothers shared a look of warm understanding.

"You guys are seriously creepy," Gordon stated. "Do you know that?"

"If _you_ think it's creepy, Gordon," Scott faced his brother, "you want to try it from where we're standing."

Virgil could only agree with him.

"Well, while we're dealing with the supernatural," John said and received twin dirty-looks, "who was the woman?"

"Yes!" Alan exclaimed. "Who is she? Spill the beans, Virgil."

John rounded on him. "Does this mean you believe now, Alan?"

"Until I can find a logical explanation, what choice do I have?"

"A woman?" Confused, Virgil looked between his brothers. "What woman?"

Gordon, his weight on his cane, leant closer. "The bad woman."

"Bad woman?"

Alan nodded vigorously. "Was it Lisa?"

"Lisa? She's got a wicked sense of humour sometimes, but she's not bad..." Virgil looked to his father for clarification. "What are they talking about?"

"Scott said a woman was burning you."

"A _woman_ was burning me?!" Virgil fixed his attention on his eldest brother.

"Don't look at me like that," Scott complained. "That's what you were telling me."

"I wasn't _telling_ you anything like it. All the women were well out of the way on the factory floor. Lisa was talking to me over the radio headset, but she was helping me keep focused, not burning me. That was the heat from the molten metal."

"Okay, then," Gordon decided to change tack. "What about the snakes?"

Virgil looked at him as if he were mad. "Snakes?!"

"Yeah. Scott said that you were being attacked by snakes."

"I didn't say that. I said that the snakes were a kind of metaphor."

"Metaphor?" Virgil shook his head as if he had concerns about his brothers' sanity. "Snakes? What kind of drinks are they serving here?! You've all lost your mi..." A smile crept onto his face as a memory surfaced. "Ah… I think I understand…"

"So, you do know what he was talking about?" John asked. "Who was this bad woman?"

"Medusa."

Everyone looked at him as if they had a suspicion that the heat had fried his brains. "Medusa?"

"Yes. I told you that I've never liked that crucible furnace. Call it my artist's imagination if you like, but it always reminded me of Medusa when I saw the heat currents writhing above it... Here, I'll show you." He led them over to a tattered picture on the wall. "I drew this to kill time when Lisa was modelling for the Tuffas catalogue."

Scott stared at the drawing. Then he chuckled. "Medusa, with her head of snakes. That makes sense."

Virgil nodded. "She's a bad woman who turned men to stone. I was hoping she wasn't going to do that to me."

"Well, now that we've got that cleared up," Jeff rubbed his hands together. "I think we'd better rejoin the party."

Virgil sighed. "Let's get the circus over and done with." He, accompanied by his father, trailed behind his brothers. "I hope you're not going to be making too much fuss."

"Virgil…" Jeff held the door open for him. "You deserve some recognition and I'd be frowned on by my employees if I didn't do something to acknowledge your efforts. After all, you saved Max Watts' life!"

"And then I had to be rescued by Uncle Hamish. That's not exactly an illustrious start to my career."

"You risked your life to save someone else's. Why don't you want ACE to show their appreciation?"

Virgil held up his green hands. "Would you want to be paraded in front of the people you work with looking like this?"

Whatever Jeff's answer was going to be, he was interrupted when a young man rushed towards them. "Virgil...! Virgil! I…" George Watts pulled up short when he realised who Virgil was talking to. "Oh! Sorry, Mr Tracy. I… um… I can come back later…"

"No, it's all right, George. I'll leave you two to talk…"

"Please, don't go on my account, I've got to get back to Dad in a minute anyway."

"Your father's here?" Jeff looked towards the door. "I should go and greet him."

"Don't do that," George begged. "He'd be too embarrassed for you to see him being carried out of the ambulance. He'd be much happier meeting you in here."

Jeff nodded. "How is he? I'm not sure that I've done the right thing arranging for him to leave the hospital."

"He's not the best," George admitted. "But nothing was going to stop him coming. I'd better get back out there and keep an eye on him, but before I do…" He turned to Virgil. "I just had to tell you. I've got a job playing the guitar!"

Virgil smiled at the other man's obvious pleasure. "You have? That's great! Where?"

"It's only as a session player at one of the local recording studios, so it's nothing glamorous, but at least it means I'm in the industry and I'm getting a regular income. I can use it as a stepping stone to something better."

"Yes, you can," Virgil agreed. "That's really great, George. What does your father say?"

"He hasn't said much, but I think he's pleased. You know what fathers are like. Don't like to be proved wrong."

Virgil glanced at his own father and only just managed to avoid laughing out loud as he agreed. "Oh, yes; I know exactly what fathers are like."

"Always needing to look out for their offspring's best interests," Jeff growled.

"I know Dad can be a stubborn old so-n-so sometimes," George admitted. "But I would have hated to lose him. I said it before, Virgil, and I'll say it again. Thank you for saving his life."

"I won't say 'any time', but I'm glad I was able to help." Virgil watched as George Watts hurried back towards the door. He turned to his father, realising that his co-workers were giving him and 'the boss' plenty of space to talk. "What would you have done if I'd chosen music as a career?"

"I would have told you that if that's what you wanted then I would have supported you all the way. And I would have done," Jeff admitted. "Before retreating into my room and cursing the day that I agreed to letting you have music lessons."

Virgil grinned. "I thought I saw panic in your eyes when Mr Tancy suggested that I attend music school."

"That was nothing compared to the terror I felt when you said you'd consider it."

"Terror?"

Jeff chuckled. "Followed by profound relief when you told me you were intending to go to Denver. It's like I told George: a parent's need to have what's best for their child, even if it's not what their child wants, is a pretty powerful emotion. If music was something I'm comfortable with, then I might have felt differently. But, as a career choice, it's a completely alien subject to me. I know engineering and that's why I was so relieved when you decided to choose that as a career."

"In that case you must have had a fit when Gordon announced he was going to join WASP."

"No, not really…" Jeff said slowly. "I understand the discipline that goes into an organisation like that, even if I don't feel comfortable with the environment they work in. Besides, I needed an aquanaut."

"And a field engineer." Virgil laughed. "I was talking to Bruce, Butch and Lisa a few minutes ago. They told me that I should stop considering saving lives as a hobby and make it my vocation."

"Maybe they have a point," Jeff chuckled. He glanced towards the door, but the Watts had yet to make their entrance. "I wish Max would get himself a hobby. If he had interests outside of ACE then he might not have come to work on Monday when he was sick, and he wouldn't have ended up in hospital. When I visited him I took him an autographed model of the first shuttle I went into space in and told him that I expected to see it completed sometime. With any luck he'll enjoy assembling it so much that he'll want to make more." He shook his head. "It's pitiful really. All I've done is go to the moon and start up this business, but in his eyes I'm some kind of god..." Jeff straightened. "Look, there he is. We'd better go and say hello…"

Not relishing the idea of meeting his nemesis, Virgil hung back. "You go on. I'll see you later."

Jeff gave him a strange look. "One day you're going to have to tell me just what went on between you two."

"No, I won't."

"Come on, Virgil..." Virgil let out a sound of protest when his father took him by the arm and guided him forward.

Jeff Tracy smiled at the man in the wheelchair, attended by a nurse and surrounded by various pieces of medical equipment. "Good to see you, Max... Mrs Watts."

Max Watts bypassed Virgil as he looked up at his idol. "Hello, Mr Tracy. I haven't started the model yet. Today's the first day after the accident that I've had any energy." Virgil doubted that; Max Watts looked exhausted and he'd only made the trip from the hospital.

"That's fine," Jeff replied. "There's no hurry. It'll give you something to do while you're recuperating. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll tell Hamish that we're going to start..."

"Wait! Please..." Watts looked up at Jeff with pleading eyes. "I have something I need to tell you."

"What's that, Max?"

"I think you're making a big mistake."

Virgil looked at his father's face. To say that Jeff Tracy was stunned was an understatement. All the time that Max Watts had worked for ACE he'd been a loyal, if somewhat obsequious, employee. And here he was telling his hero that he was wrong?!

"Max!" his wife scolded. "I'm sorry, Mr Tracy. You know he hasn't been well. First the 'flu and then..."

"Hush, Darling. I know what I'm saying." Her husband stood firm. "A foolish mistake," he elucidated. "And I don't regret telling you that, Mr Tracy."

Jeff found his voice. ""What do you mean? How am I making a mistake?"

"You can't let this young man leave us," Watts finally glanced at Virgil, who felt his jaw drop. "I have been watching him this past year and he is a good engineer with the capacity of becoming a great one. ACE employs the best and that is a policy we should keep at all costs if the company is to remain strong."

Jeff glanced at his son and resisted the impulse to shut Virgil's mouth for him. "Well, there is some merit in what you say, Max. But I know that Virgil has been looking forward to joining his family's business for a long time. It is ultimately his decision, but his father would be disappointed to lose his services."

Virgil managed to shut his mouth, but couldn't seem to get his brain into gear to make a comment.

Max Watts finally fixed his eyes on him. "I have treated Virgil shamefully over this past year, Mr Tracy... I could see in him all the things that I wanted to see in my own son, but I knew, deep down, that I never would… That is my fault, George, not yours..." he patted his son's hand.

George Watts was looking as if he was in a third grade movie and wondering what alien presently inhabited his father's body.

"It's not Virgil's fault either," Mr Watts continued. "I was frustrated because I wanted George to take what I saw to be the safe and sure path; working for a good, solid, innovative company; and I saw Virgil as an obstacle to that... But I was only thinking of myself. I was being selfish."

"Now, Max," Jeff soothed. "I haven't been given the full story of what has gone on between you and Virgil," he glanced at his son; a gesture that Virgil took to mean that his father was expecting to hear the full facts later. "But I'm sure that whatever you did, you did with the best intentions. You know that I've got sons of my own and I'd move mountains if I thought that it would give them a happy and fulfilling life."

"But you've given your sons freedom, Mr Tracy. I was stifling my boy, I can see that now. He's been happier these last few months when he's been committed to his music, than he ever was at Tampar Engineering College or at ACE." Max pointed a finger at Virgil. "Don't you let your father stifle you, son. You do what's best for you; whatever will make _you_ happy."

"Uh, yes, Sir... ah..." Virgil shocked by the complete about-face of his supervisor, realised his mistake. "Sorry... Yes, Mr Watts."

The Production Manager ignored the slip of the tongue. "Whether it's engineering or playing the piano professionally, you do it because _you_ want to... " Max fixed the green, gloved hands with a pained expression. "Ah… You will be able to play the piano again, won't you?"

Virgil finally got his brain back into gear. "The doctors say I'll get full use of my hands again."

"Good… I... I'm sorry that you were injured saving me… And I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd left me to fall. I didn't deserve your help." Max Watts looked Virgil in the eye. "Thank you."

"Uh... I... I'm glad I was able to help," Virgil stammered.

Max smiled. "I hope that perhaps, someday soon, when you are better, maybe I'll hear you and George have a, er... What do you call it? Jam session together?"

Virgil smiled at George who seemed to have regained some of his grasp of reality and was nodding. "That would be great."

"Good…" Max Watts started wheezing.

Jeff crouched down by the side of the wheelchair as the nurse placed a mask over the invalid's face and switched on the oxygen. "Do you want to go back to the hospital, Max?"

Max Watts shook his head and pushed the nurse's hand and the mask away. "No... Mr... Tracy... I want... to thank... everyone who helped save... me."

Jeff glanced up at the nurse and then stood. "Come on then. Let's get you to your seat and get this show on the road. We don't want to keep you out of hospital for any longer than necessary."

Virgil watched as his father, Max Watts, George, Mrs Watts and the nurse made their way to the front of several rows of chairs, facing a low platform.

"So you are here," an elderly voice said and Virgil turned to face his grandmother and Edna Mickelson. "How are the hands, Honey?"

"Okay," Virgil said. "Now remind me. Are you my grandmother or Jeff Tracy's mother?"

Grandma chuckled. "So far I'm just an old biddy who turned up to annoy the caterers. Do you want me to be your grandma?"

Virgil smiled. "I can't imagine you being anyone else."

"Good," she responded. "Then you can introduce me to everyone as Mrs T."

"Right," Virgil agreed. "Hi, Aunty Edna... Ah, sorry about last night. I'm afraid I wasn't very good company."

"And I wasn't a very good host," Edna Mickelson replied. "Because of that I thought you might not be going to come here today. So I rang you up." With an expression that was almost a smirk, she pushed a button and held out her cell phone. "You might like to listen to your voicemail message."

"Huh?" Virgil listened as the phone was held to his ear.

"_Schizophrenia's running rife,_

_Virgil can't remember who he is to save his life,_

_But since he managed to save another,_

_Leave your message with his brother."_

"Gordon..." Virgil groaned. "I'll kill him."

Grandma tapped him on the arm. "You'll do no such thing. Just be grateful that he's well enough to annoy you."

"Well enough!" Virgil exclaimed. "I'm more disabled than he is at the moment!"

"I know, and that's why I've put aside some of your favourite snacks. You can eat them later when there's no one else about."

"Grandma, you're an angel..."

"Ladies and Gentlemen..." It was Jeff Tracy's voice, amplified by a microphone. "If you would all take your seats...? Thank you."

"Come on, Virg..." Scott appeared from the direction of the food table. "You've got a front row seat."

"Can't I hide near the back?"

"No. They're all labelled." Scott took Virgil firmly by the arm and steered him down to the front of the room before pushing him into his allocated seat.

Virgil was relieved to see that, to his left, Bruce and Greg had the seats closest to the aisle and that to his right sat the Crumps. In the row behind him sat the Tracys. The Watts family and Max's nurse sat in the front on the other side of the aisle.

Jeff was still on the stage. "Is everyone seated...? Good. Thank you. Welcome, everyone, to what is intended to be a celebration..." He paused. "But first I would like to offer up a personal apology. Three months ago I berated four members of my team in a very public way, so it is only right that I should apologise equally publicly. Hamish Mickelson... Max Watts... Greg Harrison..." Jeff looked each man in the eye as he said their names, "and Virgil..." he hesitated as if unsure which surname to use and then carried on, "I would like to apologise for my behaviour. I will not offer any excuses, because what I did was inexcusable. I am truly sorry."

Hamish Mickelson stepped up and took his friend's hand. "I know I speak for all of us when I say that you don't have to apologise, Jeff," he said as they shook. "The four of us know better than most that you and your family were going through a tough time."

Jeff glanced over to where Gordon was sitting behind Virgil. "That's no excuse," he growled.

"Shall I take over?" Hamish asked.

Jeff brightened. "Please."

"It would be my pleasure," Hamish stepped up to the microphone. "Now, before we get to the main reason why we're here today, I would like us all to remember that most of us are lucky to be here at all after the events of the 20th of October. We at ACE have already thanked one of our saviours, but we'd like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the other... And congratulate him on winning the world championship. Alan Tracy, would you care to step forward?"

Alan, not sure if he was hearing correctly continued to sit numb in his seat until John pushed him out. Flushing pink with embarrassment, he stumbled up to the stage. Virgil, happy to see his brother recognised, started applauding as hard as everyone else, until the sensation of gel squishing around his hands made him think that that might not be such a good idea.

"Thank you, Uncle Hamish." Alan accepted his award. Then he turned to the audience. "And thank you, ACE. Not only for this," he indicated his gift, "but also for building a plane strong enough to survive our crash landing. Next time I buy a plane..."

"Number three," Scott muttered.

"...I'm going to personally check each component to make sure it's got the ACE stamp of quality!" Alan reclaimed his seat to laughter and pats on the back from those about him. He leant forward. "Did you know?" he asked Virgil.

"No. Do you think I would have made such a fuss about coming here if I had?"

Jeff reclaimed the microphone. "And now to what you all came here for... Apart from the excellent food. Thank you to the caterers." Behind him Virgil heard his grandmother give a snort of disgust, followed by snuffled laughter from Gordon.

Greg and then Butch were the first two to receive official thanks from the owner of Aeronautical Component Engineering. They received their awards humbly; Butch proudly showing his to Lisa as soon as he reclaimed his seat. Bruce was next and received an extra mention for his role in saving Lisa Crump's life. Hamish Mickelson received his award and joked about how it had given him a taste for abseiling again and suggested that he and Jeff dig out their old climbing gear. He received a scowl from Edna that told him that this was one idea that was going to be short-lived.

"Finally," Jeff Tracy announced, "I would like to pay tribute to a young man whom I've known for many years, and who is leaving Aeronautical Component Engineering today. There are those who feel that he has become an invaluable member of our company and would like him to stay, but I know that he is moving on to an organisation who will value and appreciate his skills as much, if not more so, than ACE... We have already acknowledged the lives he saved this past year and now it is my great pleasure to recognise his actions of last Monday. He risked his own life to save a respected member of the ACE team, and while he didn't emerge unscathed, I know that we are all glad to hear that his injuries are only temporary. Virgil, would you step up here?"

Virgil did so at some speed when Butch's slap on the back propelled him towards the stage. He stood there, trying to work out where to place his green hands, and feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of all the eyes that stared at him as Jeff said a few more words of praise. His award was placed on to a table for him to remove later...

Jeff smiled. "It's customary at this junction to offer a handshake," he said. "But under the circumstances," he indicated the protected hands, "maybe we'd better forgo that particular tradition."

"That's okay," Virgil replied. "I'll make do with a paternal hug..." he held his arms open, "...Father."

Jeff's face lit up at the admission. "I'd be glad to... Son."

The effect on Virgil's co-workers was immediate and mixed. Some sat stunned. Some uttered exclamations of surprise. Others crowed that it was what they'd suspected and in some cases money changed hands. There were a few mutterings of anger. Winston looked at Rex and mimed chalking one up to them. Louis told anyone who'd listen that he'd always known. So did Butch, adding: "But I didn't tell no one!"

The Tracy brothers were on their feet, laughing and applauding.

"Aw, gee," John moaned. "I guess that means you and I are going to have to share the estate, Alan."

Bruce nudged Greg. "Look at Mr Watts' face."

Max Watts was a picture. His eyes were wide as they stared up onto the stage where father and son embraced. Like Virgil earlier, his jaw had dropped open. His already sunken cheeks had turned a paler shade of grey. His nurse, concerned by his reaction, attempted to take his pulse and her patient, wrapped up in his stupor, let her.

Jeff clapped Virgil on the shoulder. "I think you'd better say a few words."

"I think you're right." Virgil stepped up to the microphone and the room stilled. "Firstly I'd like to offer an apology to those of you who didn't know of my relationship to Jeff Tracy. My name _is_ Virgil Tracy and I am proud to be his son. I'm not sorry about that, but I am sorry that I deceived most of you. I only did it because I didn't want to receive special treatment because of who my father was..." He screwed his face up in a wry grin. "And when I first started here you all ensured that I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams!" There was a somewhat embarrassed chuckle from the audience.

Virgil looked directly at Max Watts. "I want to assure you that anything that a first year employee wouldn't say to the owner of the business won't be said by me to Jeff Tracy." He glanced at his father. "And quite a few things that a son _might_ say to his father won't be said either. I didn't join ACE to cause trouble. I joined because I wanted to get the experience of working for one of the top engineering workshops in the country. Some of those experiences were a bit different from what I'd originally envisaged, but I've enjoyed working with you all, and I've enjoyed working for ACE. Well... except for maybe one or two things." He held up his hands and his audience laughed. "I can't say that working here was ever boring."

"Except when on the linisher," Bruce whispered.

"Tonight a few people have suggested that I should re-evaluate my future," Virgil admitted. "Someone said that I should stay working at ACE. Someone else said that I should become a fire fighter or paramedic. Well..." Virgil paused for dramatic effect. "I'm here to tell you all that I've made up my mind what I'm going to do with my life. As soon as I've got full use of my hands back I'm going to drop out of society, join a commune, grow my hair long, and become a full time artist..." Poker faced he looked down to where his family was gaping back at him in dumbstruck horror. Gordon's expression of utter dismay was particularly gratifying.

The sight of mortified Tracys was too much and Virgil couldn't help but laugh. "And my brothers say I didn't know how to tell a joke...! Nope. My original plans still stand. And I hope that, compared to this one, next year turns out to be a quiet year!"

_The end!_

Or is it?

* * *

Thank you to everyone who took the time to submit reviews for _A Quiet Year_. I appreciated each and every one of them. And thank you to everyone who took the time (a looong time) to read what Quiller dubbed my Magnum Pur-opus.

Now I'm off to have _A Quiet Day_.

F-A-B

:-) Purupuss


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